


A Kiss With The Air

by shireteapot



Series: A Kiss [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Drama, First Time, Fluff, Humanity, Kisses, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 26,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/pseuds/shireteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 kinds of Johnlock kisses, from first to last, over the course of their relationship. All linked as they're all part of one story. A kiss (chapter) a day, every day for 30 days. M for language and sex. Slash, if it's not your cup of tea then don't drink it, please :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> Thirty kinds of Johnlock kisses, from first to last, in order. I'll be uploading a chapter (each one a short scene) a day, but as I'm not doing this as part of a 30 day challenge they've all been written ahead of time :) Thoughts are in italics. I'm really excited about this project so I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

**First**

xxxx

x  


The first time John Watson is kissed by Sherlock Holmes, it happens so fast that he wonders briefly if he imagined it.

 

It’s one of their rare quiet Sunday nights in at the flat. One minute he’s handing the man a hot cup of tea, fingers curled around his own and a light smile on his face as Sherlock reels off a particularly long deduction. The next, the world’s only consulting detective dips his head and their mouths connect in one fleeting, never-ending second. John goes completely still. His pulse falters and kicks into overdrive, thrumming in his veins and the bottom drops out of his stomach because _what the hell is –_ and then Sherlock is walking away, his deduction continuing straight on; that’s if it even stopped in the first place, and John didn’t hallucinate what just happened. He stares at his partner’s retreating back, jaw dropping. _Did he just...did we just...?!_ His stomach flips and twists, not with horror but with... _excitement_. His heart is racing and he feels incredibly short of breath and he, John Hamish Watson...has butterflies. He reaches up a hand and slowly, tentatively, touches numb fingertips to his mouth. His lips are tingling.

 

A sharp beep brings him crashing back to reality with a start. “Phone, John,” Sherlock prompts from his seat at the kitchen table. John barely even registers cuffing at the spilled tea on his sleeve.

“Oh. Yeah,” he mumbles, and forces his legs to carry him to the fireplace to grab the device off the mantle. _Butterflies indeed_.


	2. Fake

**Fake**

xxxx

x

The second time, it isn’t real. Well, okay, it kind of is; but it’s for a case. John has spent the past two weeks obsessing over the unexplained kiss in the living room, fighting with himself. Because he didn’t enjoy it. He likes women and he definitely _did not_ like being kissed by his very male flatmate. He most certainly doesn’t want Sherlock to try it again, more thoroughly this time, for longer. No, not at all – a couple of feet ahead of him, Sherlock stops suddenly in the middle of the pathway. They’ve been following a suspect through a park for the better part of the last hour, disguised even though it’s stupid o’clock at night and so too dark for anyone to see their faces anyway. Still John is dressed like a man half his age, with Sherlock looking oddly at home in a black leather jacket, polo shirt and jeans. _Realistic_ , the doctor tells himself, _not appealing_. He refused to do anything as drastic as cut his hair and dye it gingery-blonde like a certain consulting detective ( _flattering, John, not attractive_ ), instead donning a woolly hat. As he catches up to Sherlock he sees that their suspect, a tall man in his late 50s, has stopped to tie a shoelace.

 

“What do you think?” John whispers to his flatmate, shivering a little in the cold breeze. “Is he our guy?” In the watery moonlight he can barely make out the crease that forms on Sherlock’s brow. _He isn’t sure_. This knowledge strikes an uncomfortable, unnerving chord inside John, making him swallow nervously. Sherlock is confused – and when Sherlock is confused, bad things happen. He’s about to prompt the detective to explain, lips parting, foggy breath filtering out on the night air. But then their suspect straightens up, and almost as if in slow motion he glances behind at the two men following him...and carries on walking. Because before the man can even fully turn his head, Sherlock grabs for John at lightning speed, and crushes their lips together with a ferocity that shoots straight to John’s toes. All the suspect sees is two men kissing each other under a starry sky.

 

It all happens in a blur. Nothing he could’ve done to avoid it, he tells himself. But when the detective pulls away and their eyes meet, John can’t deny the pleasant sensation that washes over him like the tide, grey orbs dragging him under. It doesn’t feel wrong.  He should be freaking out that he’s just been kissed by another man for the second time, but all he feels is that calm warmth. The draw of an ocean he would willingly drown in. And then Sherlock releases him, and continues after their suspect, and the spell is broken. John blinks. He cringes inwardly at his own thoughts. _I’m not gay._

 

His lips still tingle afterwards.


	3. Dreaming

**Dreaming**

xxxx

x

John knows he can no longer keep lying to himself when it happens a third time, and he isn’t even awake. He starts to dream about it, kissing Sherlock – in the flat, at the Yard, at a crime scene. Anywhere and everywhere until he’s forced to admit that, no matter his sexuality, he feels something more than friendship for his flatmate. Because in the dreams it’s different. In the dreams, he kisses back. And in one particular recurring situation, he does more than that.

 

They are standing in the lab at St Bart’s, in the place where they first met. Sherlock’s features are molded into an expression rarely seen there: fear. His fingers grip John’s jumper tightly and he speaks, tone ringing with desperation, but John can’t understand the words. They’re muffled, distant and distorted as if uttered underwater. After the countless times he’s dreamed of this John still doesn’t understand why – perhaps it’s the look on Sherlock’s face, the intensity in his cool grey eyes, or the uncharacteristic emotion in his voice – but he suddenly finds himself burning with a kind of courage that only the consulting detective can stir in him. Heart hammering, adrenaline rushing, body trembling.

 

And he is the one to initiate. He seizes his partner by the lapels of his coat and kisses him, hard. Sherlock responds almost instantly and their lips move with an impossible familiarity, with fervour, as if they’ve been doing this forever. But something else runs like an electric current beneath the surface, buzzing between them. It’s a feeling that John doesn’t recognise. He can’t identify it no matter how much he tries, and he does try; he wakes from the ‘kiss’ in the middle of the night and lies there for hours, a little shaken by the _realness_ of the dream and the twisting feeling it leaves in the pit of his stomach (a niggle of what feels like _dread_ ), turning it over and over in his mind. Still he can’t figure it out.

 

It’s the only dream-kiss that doesn’t leave him sweating and sporting a raging hard-on. And then there's that confusing Something Else. It all seems important, somehow.

 

But he pushes that dream away when the sun and work force him to rise for the day, because there _is_ one thing now that he is absolutely certain of. He can’t deny it anymore. John blushes at every unwitting thought of a unique cupid’s bow, slender fingers on violin strings and a deep, thunderous rumble of a voice.

 

He has feelings for Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Problematic

**Problematic**

xxxx

x

Sherlock Holmes has a problem. And that problem’s name is John.

 

It all started with The Feeling. Several days after they closed the Black Lotus case, sitting in the living room waiting for Lestrade to call or text with a new crime scene. Sherlock fidgeted in his armchair and sighed as he stared forlornly at his phone on the coffee table, willing it to beep. A quiet chuckle caught his attention, and he looked up to find John shaking his head into the newspaper. “What?” the detective asked grumpily. What silly piece of trivial ‘news’ was so funny?

“Just you,” John answered without looking up. “You’re so impatient.” Sherlock had heard those words before, spoken with condescension, annoyance. But when John said them his tone was as  good-natured as ever. It didn’t sound like an insult. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Does that irritate you?” His voice was a snap, more so than he intended. He always seemed to take his frustration out on John without meaning to. But the doctor only folded up his paper, standing, and as he walked past the detective to go upstairs he smiled, patting Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t an impatient git half the time.” And that was when The Feeling happened. A fleeting rush of something warm through his chest, a lightness, a pull. _Affection. Sentiment_.

 

It’s ridiculous. He’s an intellectually-superior sociopath, far above such agonisingly _ordinary_ things as ‘feelings’. Sherlock won’t deny that John has certainly grown on him; become important, a vital part of his work. He is also not above admitting to himself that John is something of a necessity now – someone who doesn’t try to change him, someone to recite his deductions to and to channel his genius. Someone to ‘have his back’, as it were. _Not_ a person to actually go and develop _emotional_ attachment to, or to start feeling all fuzzy and dreamy over, and especially not to experience attraction for. Like that cursed morning in the living room.

 

But ever since then The Feeling has only grown in strength and frequency of occurrence. Ever since then, the doctor has been a constant presence in his thoughts. And then the _kiss_ , God, what had he been thinking? It seemed natural enough at the time, as if it would be unusual not to bestow a random sweep of lips on John out of the blue. Then the second kiss, in the park, that was...surprisingly...very nice. As reluctant as he is to confess to his highly inappropriate enjoyment of the action, resisting the urge to repeat it every time he looks at his blogger is almost embarrassingly difficult. Trying not to stare and analyse the sensations that run through him every morning when John gets out of the shower is hard enough, and oh, isn’t that a conveniently _accurate_ pun? Just the thought makes Sherlock want to growl in frustration – and other things, too, but it’s best not to go there at this moment in time. He’s no stranger to the frankly irritating physical reaction of his body, having been forced to deal with it himself upon occasion when the issue arose.... _Stop with the puns, Sherlock, and the shower ideas, or else you’ll give yourself an ‘issue’ in front of your brother and apparently it would be considered most unacceptable. Not to mention tedious for yourself. Though perhaps Mycroft’s response would be amusing_. _But now you’re straying off-topic._ Such a reaction has never occurred as the direct result of another person before. And Sherlock is not quite sure what to do.

 

Even as he sits in his armchair (unfortunately) discussing Mummy’s birthday with Mycroft, his mind is whirring, overwhelmed: with horror, at these unexpected emotional and physical developments. With the unfamiliar desire to stride into the kitchen and take hold of John – ousted from his chair by The British Government – and demand to know what exactly the doctor is doing to make him feel this way, because every time they look at one another it’s like lightning, like fire. A kiss with the mind.

 

Sherlock Holmes has a problem. And that problem’s name is John.


	5. Desperate

**Desperate**

xxxx

x

James Moriarty. Consulting criminal. Madman. Murderer.

 

John is shaking violently where he stands in the hallway, hard tremors that waited until he reached the safety of 221B Baker Street to erupt. His pulse thunders in his ears, drowning out all other sound, and he begins to feel slightly light-headed as a cold sweat breaks out over his skin. He hasn’t been so shaken since his first experience on the battlefield. But in a way this is far worse than the roar of gunfire, the smell of blood and burning flesh, the screams of wounded men needing _him_ , needing him to be calm and focused even when landmines were exploding around them and his fingers slipped over impossible injuries. Far worse. Because tonight, John feels as though he himself stared death in the face and – by some fucking _miracle_ – lived to tell the tale. He was abducted. Strapped with explosives. A gleaming red dot hovered over his heart. His forehead. He could have died at any second. But far more terrifying than even that is the thought of what could have happened to Sherlock. Snipers marking that flawless milky skin. The gun trained on explosives that could blow them all sky-high. The look in his eyes in that endless moment when he thought that John had betrayed him. Confusion. Hurt. Utter vulnerability. A sudden wave of nausea rolls over the doctor and he’s certain, for a second, that he’s going to be sick.

 

Less than a foot away, standing in front of John, Sherlock is absolutely rigid. He doesn’t shake. He barely blinks. The intense, all-seeing grey orbs are fixed on the man before him. He supposes he must look quite composed next to his blogger, but this idea barely registers, whispering through the back of his spinning mind whilst louder, more crucial thoughts assault his ‘superior’ brain. And the one that screams loudest, flashes brightest, is _John_. John speaking impossible words, John turned into a human bomb, John launching himself at Moriarty, _Sherlock, run!_ Oh, what crashed over him then was not The Feeling. It was so much more. Total, all-consuming terror – the possibility of the doctor coming to harm, dying, lost, gone. Crippling guilt, because he was the one who allowed John to be taken in the first place, too wrapped up in The Game to realise that he was placing the man directly in harm’s way. He failed to protect him. He failed. And then, suddenly, drowning out everything else with its raw intensity...‘affection’ falls short of describing that suffocating, liberating wave of emotion. Someone was willing to risk their life for him. John was willing to die. For him. John cares. That knowledge rattles Sherlock to the core.

 

His subsequent reaction was pathetic at the very best. _That thing...um...that you offered to do, that was...good_. For the first time in his life he wants to cringe like some embarrassed teenager. No doubt John instantly became aware of his _feelings_ : even unspoken the word is distasteful to him. It implies attachment, an emotional vulnerability. Humanity. Sherlock can hardly stand it. John’s reaction though, that was interesting. _You...ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk_. Clearly he was playing on the general assumptions made by everyone around them – that they are lovers, the great Sherlock Holmes and his new Doctor. And what an intriguing idea that thought leads to...But there was something else to John’s demeanour that suggests some hidden thought process. It was obvious in the subtle darkening of his eyes as the words left his mouth and their gazes locked. God, how Sherlock wishes he had experience in these matters, so that he could understand what is happening, what it all means. But in the end, when John’s eyes flutter open and find his, the lack of data becomes irrelevant. Because as he gazes evenly into those warm blue orbs, Sherlock is all at once overcome by that tidal wave of More Than Affection, and he remembers how easily the Doctor could have been killed, and his stomach ties itself into painful knots in a way he’s never experienced before. Something frantic blooms in his chest. His eyelashes flicker. He swallows thickly. “John,” he forces out, deep voice dropping even lower than its usual rumble. John looks right back at him, feeling a panicky sensation start to settle itself in his lungs at the same time as his heart jumps and his pulse kicks up a notch.

“Sherlock,” he replies in a tone he never knew existed.

 

And they fall into each other.

 

John isn’t sure who grabs who first, maybe it was simultaneous, but then there are soft lips crashing hard against his and his fingers are tangled in dark curls and every single inch of them is pressed together, head to toe, as if trying to merge into one being, one entity, wanting – _needing_ – to know that the other is still alive, unharmed, and John’s heart is battering his ribcage and he parts Sherlock’s lips and slips his tongue into that frustrating _beautiful_ mouth and he can’t feel anything else and he can’t _breathe_. He doesn’t try to fight it. His head swims, his pulse roars, and he gives himself over to sheer desperation.

 

His back is against the wall. _Not having that_. Hands grasp at coat lapels and _turn_ and _push_ and the detective is the one pinned now, and as John feels a certain _something_ digging into his stomach the desperation quite abruptly turns into something very different. His mind is screaming.

 

Then he rolls his hips and a heavenly groan reaches his ears and then they’re tripping up the stairs falling through the door of 221B fingers frantically pulling his jacket from him and it slides falls to the floor as he tears the Belstaff from slim shoulders and they tumble into the sofa the fireplace the kitchen table _oh God oh God oh God_ and up against another door and twisting the handle and _oh God a mattress Christ_ and he can’t tell if he’s gripping hair or fumbling with a belt buckle or both because the taste of his detective has completely and utterly driven him mad and all of a sudden there are hands on his bare skin and _holy fucking hell Sherlock oh –_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (not sorry) for the 'cliffhanger'...who knows, maybe later you *may* just get some more *ahem* detail.... *wicked grin*. Hope you're enjoying it so far, everyone. Now the real journey begins.
> 
> Also, although the chapters will vary greatly in length, I'm going to try really hard to keep them no longer than this one at most. Short and sweet.


	6. Good Morning

**Good Morning**

xxxx

x

John's eyelashes flutter, opening to warm sunlight streaming in through the window. Every single inch of him seems to ache, but it's a pleasant feeling, and it turns the corner of his mouth upwards. Then he realises whose bed he's in. And then he realises who is lying next to him, staring up at the ceiling, absolutely still save for the occasional, slow blink. John sits bolt upright as if he's been burnt. "Bloody hell!" The detective beside him doesn't move, doesn't even shift his gaze.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he says, like there's nothing unusual about them waking up in bed together.

John's eyes go wide, pulse kicking into overdrive as the events of last night come flooding back. Without the presence of a severe hangover, he knows that everything he remembers has to be real: tearing impatiently at buttons, Sherlock's hands on him, Sherlock's _skin_ on him, _oh God did I really touch him there, did he really touch me like that_ – he tentatively lifts the sheet and peers beneath. Naked as the day he was born. He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, flops back down onto the pillow, and groans loudly. " _Fuck_."

"Yes," Sherlock replies calmly. "It appears so." The doctor's stomach twists.

_Double fuck._ He slept with Sherlock. Him...Sherlock...sex...John covers his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that this is some kind of horrible nightmare he'll wake up from any minute now, because he never _ever_ dared to think...dared to _hope_...that those three words could one day be connected. Not even in his dreams had they gone that far...And then all of a sudden he wants to cringe, blush furiously and pull the sheets over his head and hide: the part of him that has been feeling increasingly more-than-friendly towards his flatmate for the past month erupts into a rush of disbelief and _elation_ – at the same time as another part of him wants to curl up and die, because this will ruin their friendship beyond repair. There's no way they can bounce back from this, it all happened on the spur of the moment and the detective clearly regrets it now, silent as he is. Sherlock probably won't want to look at him ever again. John's happiness dies instantly, the hidden smile on his face vanishing as a huff of breath escapes him in realisation. This is over. Their friendship, their partnership, all of it. Over. As he withdraws his hands from his face, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, John fights the lump beginning to build in his throat. He'll have to move out. Soon. Tomorrow. Today. He won't be able to stand Sherlock acting this way around him.

It wasn't even full sex, not that he's ever had sex with a man before (or ever been attracted to another man, but let's not go there right now). He can't remember how all the clothes came off so fast but obviously they did, it's not like he could've missed the scattering of shirts and jeans and trousers all over the floor, but he does remember the drag of Sherlock's teeth and how those clever violinist's fingers felt wrapped around him, how his name sounded coming from those ridiculous lips, what it was like to push the detective onto his back and kiss him until they were both dizzy, perfectly align every rock of their hips to find friction until they near enough passed out from _how fucking amazing_ it felt. God, John wouldn't change a second of it. But...Sherlock? The asexual sociopath? He could never...he can't feel the same. _It's not really his area, remember? You absolute idiot._ John curses himself. Well, if it's over, then the first thing he needs to do before he can start looking for somewhere else to live is _get out of this room_ _as quickly as possible_ and he shifts, edging away with the intention of going to take a shower. But before he can even solve the dilemma of trying to cover his modesty or just not bothering ( _it's not like there's anything Sherlock hasn't seen now, anyway_ ) a hand shoots out and closes around his wrist, holding him in place. John's head snaps round so fast he's surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash. The detective is still looking at the ceiling.

"We need to talk about this," he says, and the softness of his voice only reminds the doctor of last night and _oh, John_ and it makes his mouth go dry. He nods dumbly – there's no point trying to argue with him – and lies back down. A long moment of silence passes. Then: "Do you have...feelings...for me?" The detective's tone and face are completely unreadable.

For a second, John considers lying. Then he remembers who exactly he's considering lying to and realises it would be pointless to try. Sherlock would suss him out in an instant. Swallowing hard, he breathes out to the ceiling, "Yes." Just that one word. That one, tiny word, three letters; but it's like a dam bursts inside him, and everything that he's spent so long trying to bottle up comes tumbling out like word vomit. "I do have feelings for you Sherlock but I never meant to act on them I never meant for this to happen I'm sorry I know you'll want me to move out now that's okay I understand but first I really need to take a shower because I'm covered in – " Soft, insistent lips, a sharp cupid's bow, cut him off mid-outburst. His mouth is opened for him and a familiar tongue curls around his own, explores, caresses. If John could melt into the mattress, he would.

His head is still spinning when that bloody _mouth_ leaves his and he follows after it with a whimper of protest, but a hand on his chest keeps him from reaching. Sherlock hovers over him, cool eyes looking suddenly wild, excited even – his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen, hair mussed from their night together. John swears he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. "You will not be going anywhere," the detective tells him firmly. Then he adds as an afterthought, "Unless you want to." And in typical Sherlock Holmes fashion, he steams ahead before John has the chance to say anything. "I would have perhaps allowed you to kiss me again, as an experiment, but I would never have let the situation escalate in such a way unless I, too, had... _feelings_." He wrinkles his nose at the word, still unaccustomed to using it, but presses on. His doctor's eyes are sparkling blue. "I will not pretend to understand them or understand where they came from but I do know, John, that what I _feel_ is more than is considered appropriate to feel for a friend. You don't need to apologise. You've done nothing wrong. In fact," those grey orbs are practically boring into John's now, pinning him down under the weight of everything the detective is trying to say, "I am open to continuing this...arrangement, if you so wish." It takes a few minutes for John's brain to catch up, reeling, heart pounding in disbelief. He can't possibly have heard him right.

"You mean...you feel the same?" he asks cautiously, voice little more than a whisper. The man leaning over him nods. "You...you _enjoyed_ last night?" Another nod, this one noticeably more vigorous than the last. "And you..." Now John falters, praying, hoping, _please God let me have heard him right_ , "...you want to be with me..." A sudden thought occurs to him, and his heart drops down to his toes. "Sherlock, I can't be _friends with benefits_ ," he murmurs. "I'd love to be in a relationship with you, but I can't do sex, purely. Not with the way I feel." He swallows. "I'd get too attached. I'd get hurt."

"I didn't say anything about _sex, purely_ ," deep tones rumble above him. "I would like...all the rest of it, too. At least, what I think happens in a relationship, I...I don't...know." The implications of those words hit John like a freight train. _A relationship_. _The two of us. Dear Lord, he's serious..._ "John?" The detective is watching him, something like concern flitting through his eyes. Sherlock doesn't want to admit it to himself, but the idea of John rejecting his proposition is actually...quite painful. It makes his stomach turn and his breath shorten and his chest clench.

"I'm not gay," the doctor beneath him breathes.

"Neither am I," his detective replies. Another endless, intense pause. And then John finally answers,

" _Okay_ ," and he leans up and finds Sherlock's lips once more, threading his hands into familiar curls, because who is he to argue with the world's only consulting detective? The elation is bubbling again, brimming over, rolling out of him in waves and through the connection he shares with his partner and starting to take hold inside Sherlock, too.

_A relationship. The two of us. Bloody hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this was quite a hard one to write...hope I managed to do the situation justice. I'm not quite happy with it, so I'll come back to edit at a later date.
> 
> Sorry for posting this so late, guys. Real life got in the way for a couple of hours (sigh). But I promise you an update every single day, no matter how late I get them uploaded. Tomorrow's is ready and will be up at 8pm (GMT). Reviews are love.
> 
> Also, I failed to keep within my word limit. Damn it all (though I'm sure you lovely readers don't mind, hehe).


	7. Drunk

**Drunk**

xxxx

x

Sherlock is still awake, going over case files at his desk when the door to 221B bursts open at 3am, and a very drunk John Watson falls into the flat. The doctor catches himself by hanging onto the door frame for dear life before erupting into a fit of giggles. “Nice to see Lestrade remembered to put you in a cab,” Sherlock says without taking his eyes off his work. His tone is deadpan, but a hint of a smile lingers at the edge of his lips. Even a week after that morning in bed, his More-Than-Affection for his doctor seems to grow every day. He’s still getting used to...well, to _feelings_...but if he’s honest with himself, Sherlock feels...good. “You’ll wake Mrs Hudson,” he adds. John throws a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, attempting to stand and closing the door.

“Sssorry,” he slurs, grinning. He’s more inebriated than the detective has ever seen him before. He hiccups. “H-Hello Shhhherlock.” John moves towards the desk with purpose – but sways and stumbles over the coffee table, landing on his arse in a heap on the floor instead, and the giggling starts all over again. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock puts the files down and gets up; there’s no way John is going to make it to bed without help.

“Care to enlighten me as to _why_ you proceeded to drink like a fish tonight?” he asks, although of course he already knows the answer.

 

Despite his slim build, he’s strong. He slides his hands under John’s arms and hauls the blogger to his feet without too much trouble. John leans into him heavily, still laughing and grinning, and Sherlock wraps an arm around his waist to better support his weight. The other result of this is that they are all of a sudden pressed rather close together. John smells like he went swimming in beer rather than to the pub for a ‘victory drink’ with Lestrade, Mike and some officers from the Department. “Celebrating!” the older man announces loudly in answer, and Sherlock nods. The football results. Though what exactly is so exciting about the FA Cup is a mystery to him. They’re at the door by the time John continues, in a hushed, slurring tone, “Celebraaaaating usss!” Sherlock freezes with his hand on the door handle, looking to the blogger in surprise. They’d agreed to keep their new relationship a secret for the time being – had John really drunk enough to blab about it?

“Excuse me?”

“I did-hic-n’t telllll anyone,” John says, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. He taps a finger lightly against Sherlock’s open mouth. “Sss a secret. ButI’ms’happy.” For one long, intense moment, the two men simply look at each other. Sherlock stares in a mixture of bewilderment and confusion – not only did he deduce wrong, but he may have also underestimated the strength of John’s feelings – and John gazes right back. Then he leans in, and plants a sloppy kiss on the corner of the detective’s lips. “S’happy,” he repeats breathily. “S’happyth’youlikeeeme.”

 

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews, favourites, follows etc. You're all so wonderful!


	8. Secret

 

**Secret**

xxxx

x

John grumbles as he opens the door to the supply cupboard, flipping a light switch so that he can see what he's doing. The Department is almost deserted today – three big cases all at once are keeping everyone busy, especially the consulting detective, who insisted on spending the night at the Yard with his doctor, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson to go over evidence. The fact that he asked for Sally, Sean and Greg to be present shows just how much the work is wearing him down; he hasn't slept in nearly a week and John has to practically force-feed him every time he gets the chance, otherwise the younger man wouldn't eat at all. But, on a case, everything else is 'just transport'. Unfortunately for John, this extends to a lot more than just eating and sleeping. The poor doctor hasn't received so much as a kiss in the past week. Actual sex – they haven't 'done it' since their night together nearly a month ago, John doesn't want to rush the man and scare him away – is absolutely out of the question. It seems to be some kind of unspoken rule of the detective's, that physical interaction and relationships take a backseat when there's a case. Until the day comes when Sherlock's willing to make an exception to that rule, John knows the work will always come first. He shouldn't have expected any less, and he understands, he really does – Sherlock's work is a huge part of who he is, and John wouldn't change that for the word. Still, he's pretty sure he's allowed to be a bit fed up with constantly being rebuffed and made to run around after his detective even more than usual. Like now, having been sent to look for a green pen ("Not red or blue or black, John, it must be _green!_ ") in the Department's supply cupboard.

He mutters to himself under his breath again – _bloody detective_ – and shifts around a few boxes of stationary, but quickly decides there are no green pens. John sighs deeply in frustration. He's just wondering if he could nick one from somebody's desk when a hand appears without warning between his shoulder blades and pushes. The shove isn't very hard; quite light in fact, but it's enough to make John lose his balance and fall into the cupboard with a rather undignified yelp. His military training kicks in instantly. He catches himself and wheels round, ready to fight off – well, he's not sure who or what exactly, but something – and then swears. It's Sherlock. "What the – " John starts to demand, pressing a hand to his racing heart as if to make sure it's still functioning. But Sherlock raises a finger to his lips, and immediately the doctor falls silent as his partner glances around the corridor outside. _What on Earth is he up to now?_ Only, then the detective steps into the cupboard and pulls the door shut behind him, and John's pulse speeds up even more. The space is so small that John has to lean back a little and crane his neck to look up at Sherlock, even with the taller man dipping his head, leaving them nose to nose. He tries to ask again: "What..." But this time he trails off of his own accord, because Sherlock's hands are sliding round his waist and up under his jumper, coming to a stop on the small of his back, pulling him flush against an immaculate silk shirt and suit jacket. John's arms lift on instinct, and as he tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck he tilts his head up, and meets the detective's kiss perfectly. It's sweet and soft, closed-mouth, but he certainly doesn't have a problem with that: it only has to be Sherlock for his knees to go weak, for his mind to turn to mush.

For a few minutes afterwards they simply stand together, breathing one another in, studying each other through heavy-lidded eyes. John's tongue rolls out and licks his bottom lip, as it so often does when he's full of nervous anticipation. He nearly explodes at the hints of cigarette smoke and tea that consume his taste buds, the delicious combination that makes up his detective. A distant voice in the back of his mind pipes up that he really needs to talk to Sherlock about the man's smoking habits: he tells it, firmly, to piss off. Then he whispers aloud, "You sent me here on purpose, didn't you?" Sherlock nods. Of course he did - he was the one to ask that they keep this development between them a secret, even from Mrs Hudson. The press would have a field day, not to mention it would lead to all sorts of obscene gossip, and John, in his post-kiss daze, had agreed with him. Outside they had to act as if they were still 'just friends'; but in here, they're free from prying eyes, free to be what they really are. Sherlock looks down at his doctor in the dim light of a cheap ceiling bulb and rumbles quietly,

"I haven't forgotten you, John." Intense grey eyes rove over a weary face as if to highlight his point. "I am sorry. I haven't been attentive. It's just...the work..." He trails off, lost for words (an increasingly common problem of late) to explain himself further. But it's okay. He doesn't have to. John smiles at him, gently, and gives a little nod.

"I know," he replies. "It's alright, Sherlock. I understood going into this that your work is everything to you. I respect that. I don't ask anything more than for you to remember me between cases." He brushes lightly at fluff on the detective's shoulder, before looking him in the eyes. "Deal?"

John blinks and his mouth his suddenly covered again, a tad more forcefully this time, and he supposes this means yes. Then Sherlock temporarily takes a hand from John's back to flip the light switch, plunging them both into darkness, not a second too soon: moments later footsteps sound in the corridor outside, and familiar voices float towards them. "See, John's not here," come Greg's confused tones, "I told you it wouldn't take him this long to find a pen."

"Maybe he's with Freak," suggests Sally, and the doctor can just picture her folding her arms matter-of-factly.

"Gone for a romantic walk around the morgue, I bet," puts in a sneering voice that can only belong to Anderson. A vivid image of Sean's face if he knew what was really happening less than a foot from him flashes across John's mind. If it wasn't for Sherlock's distracting kisses he'd probably have giggled and given them away. As it is he can feel the detective's smug smile against his lips, and takes a good degree of satisfaction in getting off with the so-called 'Freak' against boxes of ring-binders and felt-tips.

"Oi, that's enough you two," scolds Greg, much to John's pride, "Come on, let's go check downstairs." There are more footsteps and grumbles, then the ping of the elevator, and they're gone. But the two men don't move. For a few minutes longer Sherlock and John stay there in the cupboard, in the dark, wrapped up in each other, and as Sherlock's kisses gradually turn to delicate, teasing nips John catches one word breathed into his mouth:

" _Deal_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To hell with the word limit. The more Johnlock, the merrier! ;)


	9. Wanting

 

 

 

**Wanting**

xxxx

x

When at long last the final case has been solved, almost two weeks later, both men are exhausted and stressed to breaking point. They stagger into the flat at half past four in the afternoon, find just enough energy to change their clothes and brush their teeth, and by five o'clock they're collapsing into Sherlock's bed, both in desperate need of some rest. Even the world's only consulting detective, who barely ever sleeps anyway, has never been more grateful for his cushy mattress and warm sheets. He has to try and stifle a yawn as John reaches out and pulls the plug on the digital alarm clock. When the doctor turns back, he can't help the rush of fondness that fills him at the sight of his insomniac genius blinking away sleep. He gestures with a hand, "C'mere." Sherlock obediently shifts closer until he can hide his face in the spot between John's neck and the pillow, long limbs sagging and his eyes fluttering shut. John's own eyelids close, and as he wraps his arms around Sherlock he sighs out, "You were brilliant." The detective in his arms mumbles something that sounds a lot like 'I'm always brilliant', which makes John smile. Sherlock never fails to amaze, even when he's being a pain in the arse or pouring acid on things he shouldn't be. He's beautiful too. As strange as it feels to John to admit it, having never found another man any kind of attractive before, the younger man really is stunning. With those eyes and lips and cheekbones, and then the curls and lean build...the violinist's fingers and steady hands, thick eyelashes, the dusting of beauty marks across his neck...John is pulled sharply from his thoughts and the brink of sleep by the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat.

"John?"

The doctor's eyes open, and immediately he realises why Sherlock spoke. He feels a deep flush begins to stain his cheeks and neck: he should know by now what thinking about his detective like that does to him. Lord knows he's had to deal with impromptu erections in far more awkward situations than this. "I'm sorry," he mumbles in apology, embarrassed, letting go of Sherlock and inching back to put a suitable amount of space between them. John can't bring himself to meet the gaze he can sense burning into him. "I-I was just..." And now it's his turn to cough awkwardly, because he sounds ridiculous as he stumbles over his words, like some clueless teenager. This man is, for lack of a better word, his boyfriend. He finds him attractive – it's only natural that his body should react in this way, and as a doctor he knows sometimes it honestly can't be helped. The only thing inappropriate is the timing. "I was thinking about how beautiful you are," he explains, forcing his voice to be steady. "And you do this to me, even when I don't mean for you to." The mattress shifts as the detective beside him moves up onto an elbow, and this time John can't avoid the eyes staring at him in what appears to be... _confusion_. He looks guiltily (he really tries not to feel it) back.

"You think I'm beautiful?" Sherlock asks, eyebrows drawing together as if presented with an idea beyond his comprehension. John nods slowly. The frown only deepens. "But... _why?_ " Raising an eyebrow, John's forehead creases.

"What do you mean, 'why'?" he asks.

"I mean," begins Sherlock with a wave of his right hand in the air, like it should be obvious, "that as far as I'm aware, my physical appearance is far from what is considered to be aesthetically pleasing. So why would you possibly think that I am beautiful?"

For a minute, the doctor has to let that question compute. Once he's certain he heard correctly, he's tempted to ask Sherlock if he's taking the piss – but the frown on his face is too real, his confusion too genuine. The detective really has no idea. John's expression softens. "Because you are," he answers, and hurries on as Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, "I don't care what everyone else thinks is 'pleasing', I only care what _I_ think, and I think you are." The eyebrow he quirks this time is teasing. "I mean really, Sherlock, would I get hard over you if I didn't find you attractive?" He doesn't actually expect the younger man to answer; Sherlock probably knows anything and everything there is to know about human biology, but it has still become obvious to John over the past month that what happened between them that night was the man's first ever sexual encounter. It was impulsive, adrenaline-fuelled. Over before the detective probably even had a chance to process anything. In that respect John wishes it could have been slower. He'd have liked to take his time with Sherlock, to teach him everything, really savour being able to have him in that way. But really, even though John has a fair amount of experience in the bedroom, it doesn't matter. They might as well both be virgins, because regardless of what came before they are both new to each other.

Sherlock's frown has faded away, but there's an intensity filling his grey orbs now and it makes John's stomach do somersaults. Then, the detective's lips part and he asks, "Can I touch you, John?" The doctor feels as though his eyes must be bugging out of his head.

"What?" he squeaks, unable to tear his gaze away.

"Can I touch you?" Sherlock repeats in a tone so innocently curious it could melt butter. "Would that...be alright?"

 _Yes!_ his partner's mind cries, _That would be more than bloody alright!_ The words that actually come out of his mouth, however, are far more delicate. "Of course," he answers, voice reduced to a hushed whisper. "If you want to."

"Very much." John swallows, hard. Licks his lip. Inhales. Manages a weak, dazed nod. Sherlock sits up further, balancing on a forearm, and John turns onto his back to give him better access. All traces of sleep or exhaustion are gone.

The first place Sherlock touches is his doctor's face. He presses his fingertips lightly to John's cheek, tracing the lines and crinkles and little razor-nicks, all the while wearing a look of intense concentration. Cataloguing every detail. There isn't a thing he won't miss, not a fibre of John's far more ordinary being that he won't commit to memory. As the pads of careful fingers pass over his lips, the blogger isn't sure if that thought is nerve-wracking or reassuring. He decides to come back and revisit it later, and focuses on keeping still. This is about Sherlock, about giving him the chance to really grow accustomed to the idea of physical intimacy by doing what he needs to do: deducing. John does, however, somehow find the wherewithal to croak, "Do you want me to take off my shirt?" as the detective skims over the pulse thrumming in his throat.

"Please," Sherlock replies, and sits back to let his partner pull the obstructing t-shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor and lying back down. John isn't usually self-conscious, not by a long shot – the army and an active dating life shook that out of him, and he _is_ known as 'Three Continents Watson' for a reason – but as those grey eyes rove over his body he all of a sudden feels very exposed. Vulnerable even. Maybe it's because he knows the other man won't skip over a single inch of him. "Breathe, John." The baritone rumble almost makes him laugh, because shouldn't he be the confident one here? But he sucks in a breath and lets it slowly out all the same.

Sherlock brushes over the _very_ light scattering of blonde across John's chest, taking a moment to appreciate the doctor's body: the suntan has long since faded, though his skin isn't quite pale. His military service has left him in good shape. Not muscled or defined, and there's a sweet, slight curve to his stomach, but fit. The detective's touch is feather-light on the pink starburst scar on John's left shoulder, though when he notices the way the man tenses up under his fingers he moves on quickly, splaying a palm over John's heart and counting the erratic beats beneath his hand. Then he slips downwards, examining the softness of the trail of hair beneath his doctor's belly button, and John's breath catches in his throat. Sherlock looks up at the sound. Up until now he's been ignoring the very obvious erection tenting John's pyjama pants, but it's not as if he hasn't touched it before, is it? He distinctly remembers reaching down there to free John from his jeans, remembers coaxing a few rather lovely moans out of the ex-soldier before his hand was nudged away so that he himself could be touched. Even if it was all something of a blur, it still happened, didn't it? His hesitation is illogical. And with that hesitation tied up into a neat little box and thrown out of his mind palace (he has to make room for all the new data being with John is going to provide him with, after all), Sherlock dips below the waistband of John's pants and wraps a hand around his length.

The doctor's eyes close at the contact, fingers clasping the sheets tightly, humming appreciatively in the back of his throat. The corner of Sherlock's mouth tugs up as he files that bit of information away for later. Perhaps a repeat performance of their night together _would_ be interesting...He flexes his fingers, draws on his memory and knowledge of his own preferences and gives an experimental stroke; John pushes his head back into the pillow with a whimper, arching his hips up into that _Godfuckingamazing_ sensation. Sherlock smiles. Leaning down, he claims John's lips with his own in a deep, demanding kiss, stroking again, feeling himself start to grow hard as the doctor groans into his mouth. And the kiss doesn't break, not for the next half an hour. And when John moans out for Sherlock to stop - he's close, so close, but not ready yet - he takes the detective's lips again instantly and rolls them over and divests Sherlock of his clothing as quickly as possible and proceeds to _savour_. They drink one another in, tasting, touching and memorising. They don't rush it this time and it's better, _so much better_ , not that either of them thought that could be possible. And when they finally cry out into each other's mouths and fall shuddering, shakily into utter stillness, Sherlock breathes out his approval into John's chin.

_Oh, yes. Repeat performances are very interesting indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been tearing my hair out over today's update; I'm still finding my way with slash so I hope this is up to par. I'll most likely come back later to write more.  
> Also, a reviewer on ff.net raised a very good point that I forgot to mention before! In three chapters of this fic ('Problematic' being one) I chose to focus less on the actual physical action of a kiss and instead take a look at the feelings and thoughts behind a kiss. For example, when Sherlock sees John in that chapter and he gets that feeling when they look at each other, it feels almost like a kiss between their *minds* :) Hope that clears that up!
> 
> If you have any questions please let me know, I want to be sure that I'm doing my job properly! :)


	10. Wet

**Wet**

xxxx

x

“Sherlock, what the – ”

“Please, John.”

“This is ridiculous – ”

“Think of it as an experiment.” The world’s only consulting detective looks so earnest, standing there with his Belstaff hanging heavy on his shoulders and dark curls plastered to his head, that John can’t bring himself to refuse. With a deep sigh he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the towel rack. They only just got home from a crime scene, a neat, tidy, simple burglary that took Sherlock less than two minutes to crack – _why_ he felt the need to throw himself fully-clothed into the shower the instant they got through the front door is beyond John. He doesn’t have a speck of dirt on him, no blood. In fact he’d seemed much more interested in the gathering thunderstorm overhead than inspecting broken windows. “Hurry _up_ ,” Sherlock urges, fidgeting.

“Alright, keep your pants on,” John replies as he bends down to remove his shoes and socks, and then has to shake a very different image from his mind. Moments later he steps into the small glass shower, warm water instantly soaking him to the skin. He just has time to wish he’d thought to remove his cable-knit before pale hands take his face, and firm lips are pressed against his own. John’s eyes automatically flutter closed at the sensation: gentle pressure, chaste, then a bit more, a swipe of tongue over his bottom lip and he opens willingly, legs turning to jelly beneath him. Water drips in his eyes, heats his skin, runs over them both, turns him dizzy. Oh, Sherlock is getting _very_ good at this.

 

His brain is foggy and his fingers have wandered under Sherlock’s coat when the detective finally pulls away. John almost whimpers at the loss of contact. “Couldn’t risk being seen...but wanted to know how it would feel...to kiss you in the rain...” Sherlock explains breathlessly, unable to move his lips more than mere centimetres from his blogger’s. Their hair sticks up and out and to their foreheads as they touch, eyes still closed. Ah, so that explains why he kept staring up at the rainclouds. “Is it...satisfactory?” Hot breath ghosts across John’s mouth, and he finds himself pushing the water-logged Belstaff from Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the shower floor. Has he been planning this all morning? Is this why he deduced the crime scene so quickly – because he was eager to get home to do _this?_ John pulls Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers, slips his hands under and over his skin.

“Need more data,” he heaves out as an answer, and finds his partner’s mouth once more.


	11. Angry

**Angry**

xxxx

x

Every officer in the Department keeps their head down, stealing curious glances, sharing furtive looks: they know better than to get involved in arguments between the Yard's two resident internet celebrities. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?!" the shorter man shouts, cheeks flushed and fists clenched in anger. "You could have been _killed!_ " Somehow John manages to keep up with Sherlock as he strides through the Department, heading for the elevator. Back in Lestrade's office, the Detective Inspector watches them go with a shake of his head and a sigh: less than an hour ago, Sherlock stepped in front of a loaded gun wielded by their desperate suspect, cornered in an alleyway. The detective wasn't wearing a bullet-proof vest of any kind, and in the short but frightening struggle that ensued it would have been so easy...had it crossed the thief's mind even for a second to actually pull the trigger, Sherlock would be dead. And John knows that all too well.

He fixes his flatmate with a livid glare as Sherlock presses the button for the elevator. "Are you even listening to me?!"

" _Yes_ , John!" the younger man snaps back, eyebrows drawn together, jaw tightening. "I don't know why you're so upset, it's not a big deal!"

"Not a big – " John has to take in a breath, letting it out as a high, incredulous laugh at the sheer _stupidity_ of Sherlock's words. "It's a _huge deal_ , Sherlock!" The elevator doors slide open with a ding and they step inside; the whole Department gives a collective sigh of relief as the doors close again, and John's swearing is cut off. "It's a huge fucking deal," he repeats once he finishes a string of truly colourful words.

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue that it isn't, but all of a sudden his back is slammed against the wall and John yanks at his collar and kisses him with bruising force, taking advantage of his noise of surprise to invade his mouth. The detective's knees buckle but John's body keeps him on his feet, long fingers grabbing at the grey-blonde hair he loves so much, a groan escaping him unbidden. He blushes at the sound. It takes every ounce of the doctor's strength to hold it together, to keep his features from crumpling under the weight of all the emotions he feels: anger, that Sherlock would put himself in danger, be so reckless. Hurt, that what it would do to John if he _was_ harmed seemed to have not even occurred to the genius. He's torn between the need to cry and the need to yell and the need to kiss his partner until he's reassured beyond all doubt that Sherlock is alright, that he's just an idiot, that he won't do such a bloody fucking _stupid_ thing again for as long as they live. So John does, he pins the consulting detective to the wall and _takes_ for the few aching moments that they can afford to let their guard drop as the elevator descends.

Later he'll feel a little embarrassed about the harshness of it all, about how easily he let himself be shaken up, but for now he just kisses. It's rough and furious and needy and Sherlock's half-hard in a matter of seconds, dizzied and breathless with limbs like jelly. His hands move to grip at John's coat but don't pull, don't push, just cling on desperately. His blogger has never, never kissed him like this before. But all too soon John pulls back, taking in the sight of those flushed cheekbones, the swollen lips, trembling cupid's bow. Dazed grey orbs swim in front of him and thick eyelashes blur as they flutter. "If you _ever_ do that to me a second time," the doctor breathes out, voice choked with tears, "I swear to God, Sherlock, I won't ever touch you again." Sherlock Holmes doesn't have to deduce to know that John is deadly serious. Unable to speak, he nods his understanding.

John releases him and moves away just as the elevator comes to a halt, and when it opens he starts off towards the entrance doors without so much as a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a third of the way through now, gosh it's gone so quick! Thank you all so much for the lovely comments, kudos and bookmarks, I'm glad you're enjoying reading the story as much as I am writing :)


	12. Thank You

**Thank You**

xxxx

x

The familiar sound of a violin greets John as he climbs the stairs to 221B, and instantly a grin breaks out on his face. Sherlock's finally home. It's been a long day at the surgery and his shoulder hurts, but he takes the rest of the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, when he opens the door to the flat Sherlock is there, playing at the window as if he never left. The detective stops and turns, lowering his violin. The smile he wears makes John feel giddy. "Hello, John." Fighting the sudden urge to tackle him to the floor and ravish him senseless, the doctor beams more brightly than he has in years – 'achingly slow' is the only way to describe the passage of the last ten days with his detective away working. Every hour seemed to _crawl_ by. Boring. John quickly discovered that 221B without Sherlock is barely 221B at all, quiet and empty as it was. He'd felt lost the whole time, as if part of himself was missing, and grew so sick of staring longingly at the opposite side of the bed that by the fifth night he'd taken to sleeping on the sofa. Shit for his bad shoulder, of course, but now that Sherlock's back, well...John has a few ideas on how to make it feel better.

"How was Vienna?" he asks, tongue rolling over his lip, eyes alight. The younger man's smile grows; John takes that to mean the case was worth the trip.

"Interesting," Sherlock answers, which is practically a glowing review coming from him.

"Good," John replies. "I'm glad."

Five minutes later, an equally _interesting_ plan to jump the detective forming in his mind, he sinks into his armchair with a cup of tea. Blue eyes eagerly drink in every inch of the youngest Holmes as he puts his violin away. "I kept an eye on your experiment while you were gone," John informs him, wondering if he can burn through the fabric of that fantastic suit with sheer willpower alone. "The one with the thumbs and the...well, whatever that stuff in the jar was." Setting the violin case against the bookshelf, something pleasant and warm moves in Sherlock's chest at this knowledge. The words ' _puréed sheep's brain_ ' just about manage not to slip out.

He won't tell the elder man where he really was for the past two weeks – in Karachi, saving The Woman from execution. Not yet. Mycroft will bring news of Irene's 'death' to John soon and Sherlock will pretend to be upset, he'll lie. But when the blogger sits him down one evening afterwards and asks him, seriously, if he had feelings for the dominatrix, he won't. He'll kiss John deeply and tell him the truth: that while Irene may have been fascinating to him, as a mind and not as a woman, _no one_ else has ever made him _feel_ the way his faithful army doctor does. No one else ever will. And oh, how he's missed John, yearned for him every moment that he was away. It feels so good to be back. So brilliantly, wonderfully good.

Pausing by John's armchair on his way into the kitchen, Sherlock smiles gratefully as he stoops to brush a kiss against his temple. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to step away from Sherlock, to talk about something serious.
> 
> I almost didn't update today, as a...I don't know, as a gesture I guess, of respect for Cory Monteith. Yes, I know that doesn't make sense. I'm not a Gleek, but I was a fan of him as a person and as an actor and I'm devastated, just like everyone else, over his death. But I thought that the title of this chapter seemed oddly fitting, so I decided to upload it, and just say that my heart goes out to Cory's family and friends and Lea, and to all the Gleeks out there. I'm raising my wand for him. 
> 
> Thank you, Cory.


	13. Distant

**Distant**

xxxx

x

On the odd occasion, as the reputation of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson grows, the press get a bit too enthusiastic. It happens rarely – they're not famous enough for it to be daily, not yet at least – but after solving a particularly high-profile case they'll find themselves mobbed by shouting journalists. Notepads and recording devices and flashing cameras everywhere. And because the closest thing to bodyguards they have are a couple of bewildered young officers from the Yard (if they're lucky) the mobs easily become a problem.

One morning John finds himself swept from next to Sherlock as they leave a crime scene, just pulled from their synchronised steps and surrounded. Several feet away through the near-blinding glares of flash bulbs, he can just about see the same happening to the consulting detective as he is forced to halt, unable to move forward through the crowd. Then he realises that his doctor is no longer beside him. He freezes, an uncharacteristic deer-in-the-headlights feeling threatening to overwhelm him, because John is his anchor and he's not used to dealing with these situations alone. And in that instant John can't tell what it is that makes him lose his temper: the _wrong_ way that they've been separated, or the vultures circling Sherlock demanding to know where he is on the Autism Spectrum.

Or maybe it's a combination of both, but whatever it is it pisses John off enough to make him angrily barge through the sea of microphones towards his partner. Sheer determination wins out in the end and he fights his way to Sherlock, and grabs a firm fistful of navy coat on the inside of the man's arm. Their eyes meet, cool grey and warm blue sharing a look that runs right through John and down to his toes. As if relief and gratitude and Something Else have been brushed gently across his lips. The doctor realises, then, just how strong they are together. How vulnerable they are apart. Reunited, they manage to make it to the shiny black car waiting nearby. Collapsing into the backseat, the mob falls behind them, and John plays that look over as Sherlock catches his breath.

A kiss with the eyes. At his side. Always.


	14. Private

**Private**

xxxx

x

There _is_ an upside to all the press attention, though. After three weeks of the duo being hounded everywhere they went, the National Gallery finally has one of its priceless pieces returned, and the journalists have trailed off to type up their articles. Sherlock breezes into 221B wearing a smug smile and feeling victorious. He hangs up his coat and runs a hand through his curls, taking a moment to straighten out his suit as he hears John bound up the stairs. He needn't have bothered – the good doctor shuts and locks the door as soon as he's inside, and seconds later Sherlock finds himself pressed up against the wall with hands in his hair and John stealing his oxygen. Any coherence that he once possessed is now lost as kisses cover a cupid's bow, dampen a jawline, nip at a pulse-point. " _Finally_ ," John half-breathes, half-growls against pale skin, tip of his nose teasing along the column of Sherlock's neck. "I have you all to myself." The detective shivers, sighs contentedly, and surrenders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update today, tomorrow's will be much longer! :)


	15. Worship

 

**Worship**

xxxx

x

The basic mechanics are the same, and though it takes a little while to get used to the new sensations they find their rhythm eventually. Awkwardness and uncertain fumblings give way to reassuring familiarity, confidence. John learns how the inside of a man feels slightly different to the inside of a woman (or maybe it's the same and it's just his partner who feels so fantastic). Sherlock discovers what it's like to have someone else become a part of you, to become a part of someone else, to be one seamless entity. It is transcendent. It is glorious.

It can start out angry or needy or soft but, sometimes, it becomes something else. They don't notice the change as they move, over, under, in, out, on and on and on like the endless crash and roll of waves against the shore, gasps like drowning men begging for breath and singing to be submerged. Biting teeth turned to soft grazes. Frantic hands soothed to velvet caresses. Ghosts of kisses firmed to languid intensity. Whimpers and moans and breathless declarations swallowed whole by cotton and lips and the whispering slip and slide of skin on skin.

The doctor likes to be on top, at first, likes watching his love come apart beneath him. He finds just the right angle to hit Sherlock's prostate with every fluid surge of hips, and shatters the man's self-control the first time they try it like this – milky skin flushing, fists curling, body arching. John prises a hand free from clenching bedsheets and laces those clever violinist's fingers with his, right next to Sherlock's head, right where he can see, _it's okay to lose yourself, I won't ever let you go_. The baritone voice breaks and fails on his name and he wonders if he should build his own mind palace, all for Sherlock, all for his sounds and tastes. He doesn't stop until that freight-train mind with its constant tangle of genius thoughts is mute, derailed, wheels spinning uselessly in the air. John's second-favourite part of lovemaking is being able to make his detective's deafening world fall silent, make his neglected body _feel, oh, John_. His favourite part is the look in Sherlock's eyes as he climaxes, those grey orbs smouldering, burning up. Their gazes lock and for a moment, just one moment, John feels like the most important thing in Sherlock's workless, caseless universe.

But the detective is a fast learner, and soon he's the one expertly making his partner squirm in desperation. He finds John's sensitive spots, behind his right ear, the top of his spine, the juncture of shoulder and neck: bite down there with a well-timed thrust and he'll turn to jelly. Sherlock likes to study his blogger's eyes, the flutter of his lashes, the dilation of his pupils, the warmth of his irises. It's not enough to label them 'blue', he needs accuracy, he needs the exact shade – cyan, azure, cerulean, _John_. He takes special pleasure in knowing that he's allowed to take John to pieces and put him back together, and oh, he _can_. Sherlock's second-favourite part of lovemaking is being able to make his ex-army doctor (trained to withstand torture, bullets, warzones) beg, groan, plead, _Sherlock, more._ His favourite part is leading John to bed after a long day at the surgery, slowly and thoroughly erasing the stress from him. Feeling John sag into his arms, hearing him sigh his name, relaxed and content into the darkness of their bedroom.

Worship in its purest, basest form, the detective decides one lazy Sunday afternoon with the doctor's tongue in his ear. Completely private, unadulterated worship. One step up from that More-Than-Affection and one step down from that Much Bigger Thing, the one that starts with 'L', and he's not talking about the term of endearment used on him so often. No, he means _the_ 'L' word, the one he's afraid of feeling because it comes hand in hand with so many other things: fear, vulnerability, weakness. He doesn't want to feel it, because once he does there'll be no turning back, no part of him left that his doctor doesn't know or own. He will be just another fragile human. But then a gentle, callused hand covers his heart, measuring, counting beats in his own desperate-for-data way, and a pleasant hardness presses suggestively into the base of his spine, and he pushes those unsettling thoughts away for now. _This_ is okay. _This_ feels like something he could do forever.

John maps every single inch of alabaster with his mouth and Sherlock marks each tan dip and hollow with his fingertips until it is all committed to memory like a favourite book, to be read over and over again, every page and line and word treasured. John robs the air from his detective's lungs and Sherlock steals the words out from under his doctor's tongue, _take and give 'til no part of me isn't you, isn't new, isn't yours_. And it is transcendent. It is glorious. John counts beauty spots ( _gifts, blessings_ ) and Sherlock counts battle scars ( _medals, armour_ ) and when they are done touching – _never done, never tired_ – they kiss and _rockrollpushpullgaspkiss_ until Sherlock's heart feels full enough to burst and John sees the blinding light of heaven beneath his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I've been so nervous about this update for the past few days. Excited too, because this is one of my favourites, but also nervous. I don't often write sex scenes (even as obscure/non-detailed as this one), and when I do I tend to focus less on mechanics (I have no idea why) but yeah. I'm anxious as to what you thought. I hope it was up to par! And I'd be eternally grateful if you could drop me a review and let me know, as this is one of my least confident areas of writing. Thank you, hope you enjoyed it :)


	16. Playful

**Playful**

xxxx

x

"Oh, dears, you shouldn't have – "

"Don't be silly," John dismisses Mrs Hudson's words with a smile and a casual wave of his hand. "It was our pleasure." The little woman tries and fails to hide a pleased grin behind her clasped hands, eyes lighting up at the sight of the large gift box on the coffee table in front of her – wrapped with expensive paper and a silk ribbon, tied with excruciating precision because the detective upstairs 'won't stand for lazy wrapping'. Sherlock doesn't admit to John that, really, he feels like Mrs Hudson deserves the best; John knows anyway. The two men sit across the table from their landlady, squashed onto an impossibly small sofa, having dedicated the day to celebrating her birthday with her. John's idea, but one Sherlock warmed to once he realised no amount of huffing and whining would get him out of it. The detective has been surprisingly well-behaved all day, no inappropriate deductions, no snide comments. He's been witty and charming, and nice – things that until now, he's reserved only for his private life and flatmate inside 221B. It's not hard for the doctor to maintain a glowing smile when his partner seems so genuinely at ease.

An hour or so later, after Mrs Hudson has finished crying over the ornate silver album of her newly, painstakingly restored, _old_ family photos, Sherlock stands to 'get a glass of water' from the kitchen (a pretence that she would easily see through if she wasn't busy sniffling into her handkerchief). John pats their landlady affectionately on the shoulder and excuses himself, too. He finds the detective already prepping the cake he somehow managed to hide in the fridge between their arrival and now. "Got the big candles?" Sherlock holds up two large number candles (the exact value of which will remain a mystery) in his left hand as he carefully inserts some smaller, stripy ones around the edges. John takes them and together they quickly assemble a rather, in John's opinion, impressive homemade birthday cake. Even if it _is_ a little tiny bit burnt on one of the corners. They take a few seconds to eye it proudly when they're done. Then Sherlock starts to gather plates and forks and napkins and a tray. "Are you happy?" John asks softly as he watches the man organise things, tugging absent-mindedly at the hem of his cardigan. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, sharp eyes sweeping over him in a curious glance. As always, he knows what John means but gives him a chance to say it himself.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem very bright today. Normally you don't let yourself show it in front of someone that's not me." The doctor's mouth edges up in a faint smile. "I just want to know if it's real, or an act." Tray ready, Sherlock turns to look at him, lowering his tones so as not to be heard by Mrs Hudson.

"I can promise you that it's real," he says in a voice like crushed silk. "Always real. You have that effect on me, John. You make me feel...lighter." It's the absolute truth, the truth that he usually keeps hidden away inside himself. But of the many things his time _with_ John has taught him so far, this is one of the lessons he turns over in his mind the most: that it's no shame to be happy, on the outside as well as the inside. It's not a sign of weakness to allow oneself to smile, genuinely, in front of one's peers every now and again. After all, every time John smiles it lights up the room, and Sherlock wouldn't change that for the world. Slender fingers brush over the back of the doctor's hand. "Real." Repressing a shiver at the raw honesty in his partner's gaze, a grin slowly forms on John's face. Years of worry and stress seem to fall from his features then, and in the moment that he steps impossibly close to Sherlock, John looks decades younger. Sherlock's breath hitches as his blogger stretches up and, grinning happily ( _y_ _es, the room does light up when he grins, when he smiles, when he laughs, brighter than_ _heaven_ ) kisses the end of his nose.

"Soppy sod."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback on yesterday's chapter, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, and each and every single one of you! Also, thank you for all the kudos/bookmarks/hits :) I hope you enjoyed today's update.
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm out for a friend's birthday tomorrow night so there MAY NOT be an update, I repeat, MAY NOT be an update. Rest assured though, I will try my best to put one up! Just in case I can't, to make up for it here's a clue as to the content: chapter 17's title is "Healing."


	17. Healing

 

 

**Healing**

xxxx

x

Not for the first time – and certainly not for the last – John curses his flatmate's stubbornness. "I wish you'd listen to me, y'know," he says, trying not to sound frustrated. He's so tired his eyes itch and the lumpy chair he sits in is giving him backache. "I _told_ you that you needed to rest." His ( _bloody stupid_ ) consulting detective waves the notion off from the bed beside him, wincing as it causes the IV in his hand to tug.

"There's no time for rest, John. We have a case to solve and a murderer to apprehend. Once I get out of here and back to the flat I can – " The doctor's eyebrows shoot up so fast it's almost comical.

"If you think I'm letting you go straight back to work as soon as you get home you can bloody well think again." Sherlock's face falls. The excited gleam in his eye turns to disappointment and he huffs, pouting. John thinks he could kiss those ridiculous lips if they weren't so scarily pale. It had been another long fortnight working a difficult case, and every minute of their time was occupied with the work. Well, _almost_ every minute; much to John's satisfaction, he'd managed to entice Sherlock into bed on several separate occasions, leaving lingering touches across any bare skin that came into view, dropping his voice an octave and leaning in close. At last the detective seems to be relaxing his strict 'not-with-a-case-on' rule about physical interaction. But when they weren't kissing or cuddling or _other things_ , the work was all they had time for. The game was on and the plot was thickening by the day, throwing new leads and suspects at them in a way that they'd never experienced before. Sherlock was consumed with the absolute need to solve this complicated puzzle. And after two whole weeks with barely any sleep or food, the man's body finally succumbed to exhaustion and dehydration. John blames his own ignorance, of course. He may have been running on empty himself, and continuously getting into trouble for skipping work, and worrying about Harry's latest relapse and his father's recent illness...but he should have _realised_ just how badly Sherlock was pushing it. It's his job to look after the consulting detective, no matter what.

Looking up, he does a quick survey of the other patients in the room and decides it's not worth the risk – he stands and pulls the curtain closed around the bed as subtly as he can. When they're safely hidden from prying eyes he sinks back into the uncomfortable chair and leans forward, taking his bony flatmate's hand in his own. " _God_ ," John begins under his breath, eyes closing as his brow furrows, "you gave me such a _fright_ , Sherlock." His throat convulses involuntarily, tightening with emotion. He hasn't been able to stop the constant mental replay of yesterday afternoon, Sherlock making tea in the kitchen one minute and going down like a sack of bricks the next, catching his head on the corner of the table. The doctor can't seem to shake the pure, icy fear that gripped him as he checked for a pulse, called an ambulance, tried desperately not to panic despite all of his medical training.

He supposes a grimace must have passed over his features, because there are cold fingers brushing at his forehead. Opening his eyes, John finds Sherlock watching him intensely as he murmurs, "I'm sorry." Gaze flickering over the shiny purple bruise adorning the man's temple, John fights the sudden urge to laugh even as a lump of emotion swells in his throat. He covers it up by raising the hand he holds, pressing kisses to Sherlock's fingertips. After a few moments of silence, the detective leans back into his pillows, right hand falling to his side. "You should go home, John. You need to sleep. Eat something." A smile plays at the edge of the doctor's mouth against his partner's skin. _He's_ one to talk. When John shakes his head in a firm no – it's been 24 hours since the man was admitted, he hasn't left his side since and doesn't plan to now – the detective frowns, "But John – "

"Sherlock, please..." Warm, glassy blue eyes open. "I need to stay with you. I thought you almost...I need to just...please." Sherlock looks at him steadily for a long minute, his lips on his fingers, the unadulterated _Something_ in his gaze. Then he answers softly,

"Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right? :) Regular daily posting will resume from now on! Slightly more angsty undertones in this chapter, and as much as I hate to see our boys suffer, there's plenty more angst and such to come...
> 
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 18: Goodbye.


	18. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for your kind words, they mean so much and put a huge smile on my face :) Today's chapter is fluffy to make up for yesterday's angst...and for what's about to come.
> 
> Don't hurt me?
> 
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 19: Careful.

 

**Goodbye**

xxxx

x

"Shit, I'm late again!" In the kitchen, Sherlock sips his tea silently and fights the urge to smile in satisfaction; it's his fault the doctor's late, but he'd be lying if he said he regretted turning the alarm off to snag an extra half an hour in bed with his boyfriend. John dashes crazily around the flat, looking stressed to the limit and, for all his sleep, as if he hasn't had any rest at all. "Oh bloody hell!" He disappears out of the door and the floorboards creak in protest as he hurries upstairs, knowing his keys are around here somewhere. Really, he'll be lucky if Sarah doesn't sack him the instant he sets foot inside the surgery. Watching him go with his still shower-damp hair and only one arm in his jumper, Sherlock estimates that he has about two minutes (118 seconds, to be exact) before John races back downstairs with the keys. He sets his cup down on the kitchen table and hums a few notes under his breath as he retrieves the bread from the cupboard. He's been dwelling on some ideas for a new composition, inspired by a certain ex-army doctor, but will only work on it whilst said doctor is out – he doesn't want John to hear it until it's absolutely perfect. Still humming, Sherlock inserts a slice of bread into the toaster, pausing to tug at the tie of his dressing gown. The toast pops up just as John reappears, keys in hand, eyes scanning the room urgently. _Wallet wallet wallet –_

"On the counter," Sherlock calls as he expertly applies the blogger's favourite raspberry jam ( _strawberry when he's sad, blueberry when he's sick, apricot when he's mad at me, raspberry when he's stressed)_. Jumper now in place, John grabs his coat from the arm of the sofa, shoving his arms into the sleeves. He practically leaps over to the detective and swipes the wallet from next to the kettle, stuffing it into his pocket, and barely has time to get out a thank you before his words are cut off by a mouthful of toast. "Food," says Sherlock simply, checking it off his mental list. Clever fingers slip round and tuck in the back of the doctor's plaid button-up under his jumper and jacket. "Shirt." Taking John by the upper arms Sherlock dots his forehead with his lips. "Kiss." Then he turns the older man towards the door and gives him a gentle push, unable to resist adding a pat on the arse for good measure. "Go." Telling himself he'll make it up to John later, he's rewarded with a look of utter gratitude and the sound of the door slamming shut. A long arm reaches out to pick up his drink as silence descends on the flat. Sherlock Holmes smiles into his tea.


	19. Careful

**Careful**

xxxx

x

They fight on their last night at the Cross Keys, and for once they don't try to hide it. They nearly wake up half the other guests with their sheer volume.

With the Hound case wrapped up and Henry seen safely home, they leave Greg to tie up the last of the loose ends and make his calls to the local police. Battered and bruised, tired and aching, the drive back to the inn passes in complete silence. The atmosphere between them is so tense that John feels as though he might suffocate under the weight of it as they climb the stairs to his room, the only one of the two they paid for that they've been using during their stay. They shrug off their coats and Sherlock throws his scarf over the little desk in the corner and for a moment they just stand there, without speaking, nerves shredded from a night of stress and high-running emotions...and then John explodes.

Not _too_ loud at first – he's too considerate to forget the time of night right away. But the accusations come thick and fast: he lets out all of the anger and hurt that he's been suppressing, and the more things he reels off the more his voice ratchets up. Before long he's shouting at Sherlock for putting possible hallucinogenic sugar in his tea, for being so rude to Greg, for endangering not only John's life but his own as well. He yells about the horrible things the detective said that night in front of the fire and admits that even though he accepts the 'I've just got one' apology it still _hurt_ like _fuck_ and he's still pissed off about it. Sherlock had a plan and he didn't include John in it, and combined with various near-death experiences and some additional tension that's been growing in recent weeks it's just too much for the doctor to take. He could have died. _Sherlock_ could have died.

Sherlock, post-case adrenaline still thrumming in his veins, loses his temper before he even knows what's happening. Pacing the floor on the other side of the room, he shouts back that John needs to stop being so childish, that he did those things for the case and that everything he said was true. John presses about Greg again and tells him there's no excuse for being foul just because he's the _great Sherlock Holmes_ , and Sherlock snaps back that if the doctor cares about _Greg_ so much why doesn't he go and shag him, then? After all, John seems to be _so unsatisfied_ with getting into Sherlock's pants, doesn't he? John's jaw drops and he throws a hand in the air because is Sherlock _really_ going to bring up their sex life like it's a bad thing for his _boyfriend_ to want him more often than once every three weeks when a bloody case is on, and from there the fight turns to John's 'date' with Henry's therapist and he argues that if Sherlock would just stop being so bloody paranoid about what people will think they could go public. Sherlock tells John to stop being so pathetic and asks why he can't just be happy with what they have. John says that he's acting as if he's _ashamed_ of being with his blogger and then Sherlock storms closer and yells before he can stop himself _what if he is_ – and instantly he wishes he could take the words back as the colour drains from John's face.

The room is silent save for the sounds of their uneven, laboured breathing. Sherlock swallows and flushes and his chest heaves, blood suddenly running cold, _he hadn't meant to say that, didn't mean...didn't want..._ John's lips press together in a hard line because if he dares to open his mouth, if he dares to move, he'll shatter into sharp, fragile pieces. His hands tremble involuntarily. It's the one time it gets really, really nasty between them. The detective rushes from the room in shame and fury and leaves his partner standing there, shaking and pale, utterly speechless.

Once John has managed to compose himself, the doctor finds Sherlock in front of the fire again, the room otherwise empty, and in a broken, hoarse voice says goodnight. He touches his lips to Sherlock's temple briefly, carefully. When he receives no response he leaves, and climbs the stairs and shuts his door as an obvious signal that he wants to be left alone. John changes into his pyjamas, the strange numbness that filled him at Sherlock's words now starting to wear off. Then he turns off the light and crawls under the covers, and cries into his pillow for an hour.

_What if he is?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, my feels. I'm sorry for this, but every relationship has its ups and downs. Stick with me - they're John and Sherlock, this won't last for long my lovelies!
> 
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 20: Apologetic.


	20. Apologetic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Sexytimes ahead! I've bumped the rating just in case, for this reason :) (I'm a little hazy on where to draw the Mature/Explicit line).

 

**Apologetic**

xxxx

x

The first faint light of dawn is creeping into John's room when he feels the mattress dip, and a long arm slips around his waist, pulling him back into a warm chest. "I'm so sorry," a husky voice breathes into his ear. " _I'm so sorry._ " The doctor bites his lip, fresh tears welling in his eyes. He tries desperately to blink them away and for a second he considers shrugging the man off, telling him to leave him alone. But he doesn't have it in him to do it. He knows he'll never be able to shrink away from Sherlock. "I didn't mean any of it, John. I'm not ashamed of you. I said it in the moment to spite you and I have never hated myself more." Sherlock's words shake with emotion, his mouth dry, throat tight. Guilt and shame choke his lungs like a poisonous fume and twist his stomach into knots. "I'm just afraid," he confesses into soft, silky skin. "I'm afraid that if the world knows how much you mean to me, it will put you in danger. I can't lose you." A hot kiss presses gingerly against the back of John's neck, the juncture of his shoulder, the hollow beneath his ear. "And I could _never_ be ashamed of you." He hopes desperately that the doctor will respond, will do something. That he won't recoil, won't leave. Sherlock is disgusted with himself and with how cruel he was and he's ready to believe it now, ready to admit that he _needs_ John. Needs him like air, like water, like food. John is vital. John is everything. "I could never be ashamed of _us_ – "

His voice breaks on the last word, and John can't stand it anymore. He turns over, face to face with the world's most stupid genius, licking his bottom lip nervously. Truth be told, he doesn't feel so stellar about his actions either; John whispers his own apology as his left hand slides underneath the detective's sleep shirt, those once cold grey eyes now so full of emotion, leaning in to seek out his lips. "I forgive you," he murmurs against Sherlock's mouth. He's not just saying it to repair this silly rift between them. He means it, because he's known Sherlock long enough and well enough by now to know that, like everyone, the detective sometimes says hurtful things in the heat of the moment. If Sherlock was really serious about what he said then he wouldn't be here, apologising so sincerely. He's a stubborn arse like that. Gently parting Sherlock's lips to brush their tongues together, John's fingertips sweep down the curve of the detective's spine, round to trace over his slim stomach, dip below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, breath hitching in his throat. Then John's hand closes around him and he breaks the kiss to hum in appreciation, much to his doctor's delight. Somewhere in the back of his mind a traitorous voice reminds him that Sherlock apparently isn't too happy about the frequency of his advances, but he pushes it away. Sherlock certainly doesn't seem to mind right now. And besides, it's not all about sex.

Removing his hand, John shifts his arm underneath Sherlock's and rolls the man onto his back, hovering over him in the semi-darkness, warm eyes soft as they take in the mixture of pain and desire on his face. John's anger melted away at the first broken note to leave his lover's lips, and even though his chest still aches at the memory of Sherlock's horrible words, he understands. He understands because he feels it too, that all-consuming fear of losing the man he lives for, breathes for. God knows they've had some close calls of late, close enough to make them end each case in question with a shouting match and a tangle of bedsheets. He can't stay mad at Sherlock Holmes. He's never been able to, never will, never wants to. Sherlock is vital. Sherlock is everything. Leaning down, John presses a kiss to his partner's chin. "I forgive you, love," he repeats, and when the man beneath him lets out a sigh of relief the tremor runs through both of their closely-pressed bodies. John's mouth traces the angle of his jaw, teeth nipping at his throat, making the younger man's skin break out in goosebumps as he asks anxiously,

"You won't really shag Greg, will you?" Then his forehead creases in confusion as John lets out a giggle against his neck. The doctor looks up, eyes glinting in the growing light filtering in through the window.

"Of course not, you silly git," he replies, and he can't help the fond exasperation in his tone, kissing the frown on his detective's brow. "Of course not." The way Sherlock relaxes is almost comical.

"Good." Smiling, John returns his attention to Sherlock's skin, ducking his head to kiss a trail down to the collar of the t shirt the man wears. He's just starting to tug at the hem of the obstructing garment when fingers thread into his tousled bedhair, and he recalls once more what the detective said about his advances. He pulls back to study Sherlock's flushed cheeks and mess of ebony curls.

"Is this...okay?" John has never sounded more tentative in his life. "I can stop, if you don't want...I can stop." Underneath him, Sherlock's breathing is uneven and his heart is pounding – but the rapidly descending fog of want abruptly clears at the look on John's face. For a moment he simply swallows, looks up at the older man with his soft grey-blonde hair and laugh lines and feather-duster eyelashes. Then he begins,

"When we're on a case, it's not that I don't want you to touch me." He tries to keep the words quiet, low, reluctant to break the spell. "It's that, with the work, too...all the extra stimulation can be quite...overwhelming."

John's tongue rolls out over his bottom lip in that unconscious – and awfully _tempting_ – way of his. Sherlock feels a familiar heat starting to stir again in the pit of his stomach. After a little while John nods, murmuring, "Okay, love. That's fair enough, I understand," and the detective's heart warms, now, at the doctor's accepting nature and willingness to accommodate him. But he knows that he has to sort out his priorities. John deserves so much better than to constantly feel second-best. He deserves to be first, always. Which is why, just as he is about to pull away and back off, Sherlock wraps his arms around John's shoulders and reverses their position, pinning the smaller man to the mattress with his thin frame.

"But the case is closed," he rumbles, voice reverberating through his chest and into John's as he touches their foreheads together. "And I want you." The blogger's eyes widen at that information, breath leaving him in a short whoosh. Licking his lip again, he manages a weak nod in response, and tilts his head up to meet Sherlock's mouth in a seamless, feverish kiss. Sherlock wastes no time in rolling his hips, grinding against the growing hardness he can feel pressing into his stomach; John instinctively starts to rock back, deepening the kiss with a wild gasp when the detective gives a particularly forceful thrust. His hands slide up and clutch at Sherlock's shoulder blades under his shirt, down to grab an eager handful of that damnable arse, back up to tangle in his curls, needing _more_ as soon as possible, but Sherlock keeps breaking away to speak and John is barely keeping it together enough to understand what he's saying. "Want..." His tongue curls vigorously around John's, exploring, memorising – "...show you..." – and his lips are bruising against the older man's and – "... _everything_..." – they are both wearing _far too many clothes_.

Sitting up, Sherlock simply stares for a minute or so at the doctor arching up into him; were he doing this with any other person – _ugh, what an unpleasant idea_ – his brain would be speeding ahead at a million miles an hour, categorising, analysing, _pulse elevated pupils dilated cheeks flushed light sweat forming on brow ragged breathing prominent erection all signs of extreme arousal_. But John isn't any other person. _John John John John._ "Sit up," the detective instructs in a surprisingly gentle voice. John uses his elbows to push himself up, and obediently raises his arms above his head so that Sherlock can pull his sleep shirt over his head and off.

In a matter of moments, the genius has divested John of all his clothing and is throwing his own pants to the floor. He doesn't go back to John's lips right away, instead dipping his head and latching on to the man's throat, sucking a light bruise into his skin as John hums and tries not to make a loud noise. Sherlock licks over the tender mark, revelling in the sweetness and salt of John's skin. He slowly makes his way down the doctor's neck, hot kisses interspersed with words. "Did..." The hollow of his throat. "You..." The shallow dip of his collarbone. "Bring..." The sensitive flesh of a pink starburst scar. "Any...?" Sherlock's swirls his tongue over a nipple before John can respond, feeling it harden as John's hips jerk unintentionally and he releases the quietest, lowest of moans. The detective does it again and his partner whimpers in the back of his throat, pressing his hips upwards, desperate for the friction it creates as their cocks slide enticingly together: they're both so painfully aroused that they'll fall over the edge _now_ if they're not careful. Swallowing hard, John forces his eyes to open and shakes his head, internally kicking himself. But Sherlock's reply only makes his pulse pick up. "Good thing I did." Sudden cold rushes over John as Sherlock slips out from underneath the covers in a flash, darting across the room to his bag. Mere seconds of rifling around and he's back, climbing on top of his blogger, straddling his hips and flipping the cap on a familiar bottle that John last saw in their bedside table at home. " _Relax_ ," a baritone rumble coos into his ear. "I want to do this for you." And just like that, John goes boneless, melting into the mattress.

 _This is his way of apologising,_ he realises. _This is his way of telling me all the things he's afraid to say._ His eyelashes flutter and his breathing evens out. _I want to do this for you_.

Sherlock rubs his palms together, warming up the lube so that it will be more comfortable for John before slicking up his fingers. He leans down for another kiss, gliding his tongue over the doctor's until he feels almost dizzy, until the older man is showing signs of becoming lightheaded too. Then he trails a hand down between John's legs, balancing on a forearm, brushing past the erection pressing into his stomach and, mindful of the fact that it's been a while since John was the bottom, slips the first finger up inside him. The effect is instant: a whimper, followed by a sigh into his mouth. Sherlock resists the urge to smile and focuses on not bucking his hardness against his partner's hip. Slipping the digit in and out for a few moments, he then adds another finger and pushes up at a certain angle, finding the sweet spot that he's looking for on the first try. John breaks the kiss at the touch of Sherlock's fingertips to his prostate, stifling a cry in the crook of the detective's neck. His hips arch off the bed and if he had a voice, if he wasn't suddenly incapable of speech, he'd beg the man to take him already and to hell with the preparation. But as it is Sherlock continues to stretch his partner until he can manage three fingers with relative ease; this is about pleasuring John, taking their time, sending him to the very edge of ecstasy and holding him there before tipping him over. Not rushing it, or shagging him senseless (no matter how appealing that option may sound).

Once the doctor is ready for more, Sherlock sits back and reaches for the lube again, squeezing a little more onto his fingers. His eyes find John's as he warms it up, the older man's gaze hot and heavy in a way he never knew it could be. The blue orbs follow his hands as he slicks his now fully-hard cock up, using all his willpower not to come at the mere sight of John laid out on his back, beautiful and bare and blushing, close to whining at the loss of Sherlock's fingers. When he's sure that he's lubed up enough, Sherlock pushes John's thighs apart a little wider and settles back between them, drawing him into a kiss again. Sweeter, softer this time. Then he presses the head of his cock against John's entrance, and breaks the kiss to look down at him. He has to see, wants to watch. He needs to know that the doctor understands everything that he cannot put into words. Impatient, John wraps an ankle around the back of Sherlock's thigh and pulls lightly, urging him to move. Sherlock's face lights up in a self-satisfied smile that would earn him a poke in the ribs if he didn't at that minute start to lull his hips forward. He slips into John in one smooth, fluid motion and his eyebrows draw together at the sensation, biting down hard on his full bottom lip. His hands fist the sheets and he groans, ever-so-quietly under his breath because _oh, hell,_ he'll never get used to how incredible John feels _so hot so tight such a perfect fit made for me only me_ as long as he lives, and as he bottoms out that gorgeous grey-blonde head pushes back into the pillows and John's mouth falls open in a silent 'o' of long-denied pleasure. The sight is so exquisite that for a moment Sherlock forgets how to breathe.

But then John is reaching for him, surgeon's fingers finding a gentle hold in those unruly curls and pulling their foreheads together again, and he lifts his hips a fraction in prompt and Sherlock starts to move, slowly at first, not too hard but hitting that sweet spot as often as he can. It's not going to last long, but it doesn't need to.

Their eyes lock in a gaze so intense that it anchors them both to this room this bed this _moment._ Their noses brush and they breath into one another as they rock, roll, faster, firmer and the edge rushes closer too fast not fast enough and their mouths meet in long languid kisses and _John John John John_ the detective sees hears tastes feels nothing else and the doctor sees hears tastes feels _everything_ in this simple wonderful glorious action between them _everything everything everything_ and Sherlock repeats his apology over and over on and on and on until the edge drags them over in a burst of stars and sunrise and stifled satisfaction and he collapses, sweating and shaking, into John's arms.

His thundering heart beats out the words again and again into the contented silence of the room.

_I'm so sorry. I can't lose you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. So, there you have it - my first 'full' sex scene of any kind. I told you John and Sherlock wouldn't be fighting for long, our detective would be lost without his blogger! Once again guys, I'm quite apprehensive about my ability to write scenes like this and so feedback would be really, really appreciated (I'm always wanting to improve). Thank you so much for all your reviews for the last chapter, they made me chuckle - sorry for making you worry, haha!
> 
> Two thirds of the way through now, wow.
> 
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 21: Given.


	21. Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cutting it close today - hope you enjoyed it!

**Given**

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When they return to London, Sherlock surprises himself by apologising to Greg for the way he acted in Dartmoor. The silver-haired Detective Inspector calls them to a crime scene and, before even so much as glancing at the body Sherlock mutters, in front of a crowd of officers, that he's sorry for being rude and that in future he'll be more appreciative of _Greg's_ help. Then he disappears with a swish of navy coattails into the abandoned waterfront warehouse, leaving Lestrade speechless, mouth hanging open in utter shock. John bites his lip to hide an amused smile and hurries after his partner, and Sherlock can feel the badly-disguised fondness practically boring into the back of his skull. "I told you I'd behave," he says as John catches up, tugging on a pair of latex gloves.

"You did," the doctor replies, falling into step beside him. "That was...very mature of you to do, Sherlock." The corner of the detective's mouth pulls upwards.

"Glad you think so."

The victim is a young woman, blonde, green-eyed, fair – and wearing the most...voluminous...wedding dress that John has ever seen. He gives a low whistle as Sherlock drops down to inspect the corpse in his usual fashion, probably deducing her first childhood pet from the length of her eyelashes or some other incredible feat. "That's one big dress."

"Yes, well observed, John," Sherlock mutters back, but his tone is devoid of exasperation. The blogger only shakes his head, still fighting that smile.

 _Cheeky bastard_. He stands to one side, out of the way for the next few minutes as Sherlock studies every inch of the dead woman's makeup-less face and intimidating attire, watching the man work with his arms folded across his chest and an undeniable softness in his admiring gaze. The detective would probably tell him off for being so open if he weren't otherwise preoccupied, but John can't help it; since their trip to Dartmoor the air between them feels so much clearer, so much lighter. They'd had the argument they'd needed to have and got all of the pent-up tension and anger out of their systems, and already he can sense that their relationship is far better for it. He hadn't been able to wipe the grin off his face all the way back to London. John is so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Greg come up behind him until the DI clears his throat. Turning to him expectantly, John finds Lestrade wearing a knowing half-smirk with a look in his eyes to match.

"Someone had a good trip then, eh?" he says. When the doctor simply stares at him in confusion he darts his eyes subtly downwards to the exposed area of John's neck – and the fading purple bruise that lingers there. The one that is unmistakeably a lovebite, the one that a certain consulting detective gave him. John freezes immediately.

_Fuck, I thought my collar covered it, shit how does he know, how did he find out, Sherlock is going to kill me –_

"Who was she, then?" Greg prompts, lifting his eyebrows suggestively and giving his friend a playful nudge with his elbow. "Give a single mate some details." Later, the blogger is completely unsure as to how he contained the pure relief and understanding that washed over him next. Greg doesn't know. He doesn't know a thing. Forcing a grin that's only half-fake, John answers,

"Ah, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." Lestrade rolls his eyes and nudges him again, making a noise of terrible disappointment.

"You and your bloody nobility, John," he sighs. "My ex-wife shoulda married you instead." And John chuckles then, because he's glad that Greg is finally happy and back into the singles club and, obviously, clueless that he's now the only member; but still he can't help thinking,

 _Poor Greg...if only you knew_.

"Well, she must have been pretty damn amazing if Three Continents Watson was interested," Lestrade concludes, admitting an easy defeat. Attempting to get information out of the Captain if he doesn't want to give it up is more pointless than trying to staple jelly to a tree. John only smiles smugly to himself.

"Oh, _definitely_."

Peering closely at the corpse's fingernails, back turned to the other men but tuned in to every word of their conversation, Sherlock's lips curve up into a smile.


	22. Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There may be a slight trigger warning for this chapter, for mentions of severe bleeding and a brief mention of cancer. I'm not even sure if they count as triggers but I don't want to accidentally upset someone.

**Stolen**

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John's nightmares have eased off since he started sharing a bed with Sherlock. But sometimes, when he's stressed or worried – like on a dangerous case or now that his father's cancer has spread – they return with full force, making him wake up yelling in Sherlock's embrace, making him cry in his sleep, making him _hurt_ again. He's engulfed by the detective's arms before he's even fully aware of his surroundings, heaving out ragged breaths and hitched sobs. Sherlock never asks for details and never pushes. He only holds the doctor tightly to his chest, helping John use the steadiness of his heartbeat to slow his own racing pulse, and eases the older man back into sleep.

But then there are the nights when the bad dream rolls slowly away like a thick fog, and John returns to consciousness without tears or screams. He gasps in great lungfuls of air and pulls the covers closer to reduce the shaking, blinking languidly to rid himself of the haunting images seared into his eyelids. Once he's calmed down enough to focus, John allows his gaze to drift from the darkened ceiling to the sleeping man beside him, watching the light rise and fall of his chest, sheets tangled around his waist. Sighing, John turns carefully onto his side and props himself up on an elbow as he drinks Sherlock in. Through the open curtains moonlight streams in to soften his features, highlight the long lashes dusting his cheekbones; he's wearing a t shirt but every bit of pale skin exposed seems to almost glow. _Beautiful_.

John studies him for a few moments, just for a little while, just until he feels safe again. And here, in the familiar warmth and security of their bedroom, he lets his mind wander. He thinks back to Afghanistan, to the day he was shot whilst trying to patch up a young soldier who'd caught some shrapnel to his thigh. Absolute blinding agony, followed quickly by mind-numbing terror. There's no way for him to accurately put the experience into words: except that he believed, honest to God _knew_ with every fibre of his being, that he was going to die out there on the battlefield. There was so much blood that the bullet must have at least grazed an artery and they were so far away from the rest of their unit, he was going to pass out from the pain and then bleed out and that would be it for Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers – but in amongst all the chaos, one of the things he remembers most clearly is continuing to try desperately to save the other soldier's leg. If it wasn't for Bill coming along and dragging his arse out of there then it really would have been curtains. Thanks to Bill (because really, it's spectacularly hard to keep pressure on a gushing artery when the only hand you can really use keeps slipping) both he and the wounded Private had survived.

Afghanistan feels like another world entirely. He can barely reconcile the life he used to lead with the one he slipped into when he first came home to London; grey, miserable and lonely, because he had no one back then. His relationship with Harry was frayed to almost beyond the point of repair and he was sliding deeper into depression by the day. Until he met the world's only consulting detective. Until everything changed, and his world was filled with laughter and tea and cases, severed limbs in the freezer and silly arguments and the kind of happiness he thought he'd never know. And he owes it all to Sherlock Holmes. He owes him everything.

John eases in slowly, and brushes his lips ever-so-lightly against his partner's, stealing a kiss. Then he lies back down and closes his eyes, throwing his arm over Sherlock's chest, and wonders when he started to get so soppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't thank you enough for all the comments, bookmarks, kudos and hits, and I don't want to get repetitive and annoying, haha. But know that I'm grateful for every single one of you! The end is approaching (noooo!) but I'm having so much fun, gah. I don't want it to end!
> 
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 23: Comforting.


	23. Comforting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Trigger warning for grief/bereavement. This chapter is quite angsty, guys.

 

**Comforting**

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Sherlock's body aches. His limbs are groaning in protest from maintaining the same position for a little over two hours but he refuses to move, to give in to the uncomfortable pins-and-needles sensation creeping up his legs. This is not about him right now.

Who would have thought that the world's only consulting detective would one day be capable of unselfish acts? That he could ever put the needs of others, of his blogger, above his own? That he would eventually give in to sentiment? The last fourteen months or so with John have exposed him to emotions in a way that he can't escape, forced him to accept feelings that he'd long avoided acknowledging: that he cares for the doctor deeply, irrevocably. What he feels for John is a kind of sentiment that crept down inside him when he wasn't expecting it and took root, germinating and growing and taking hold of him until it became a vital part of his being. A necessity. _Impossible,_ he'd wanted to insist. _The only thing necessary to me is the work._ But because of John, he is at last beginning to understand the value of humanity. That even he – the great Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed asexual sociopath – can embrace his heart. As he started to observe several months ago, one's willingness to outwardly display emotion does not directly correlate to weakness of character.

Feelings are not always a disadvantage, even if he has come to learn that not all of them are pleasant.

John cries into Sherlock's neck, tears wetting the open collar of his shirt. The detective has been perched on the sofa with his doctor in his lap for what feels like an eternity; his hold only tightens around the older man as John weeps, lips pressing into his hair and unfamiliar shushing noises filling the flat. For the first time in his life, Sherlock finds he is desperate to alleviate another's suffering. He'd do anything, anything at all, to stop John's tears and still his trembling, piece the fragments of his broken heart back together – surely there must be some truth to the metaphor, he thinks even though the rational part of his mind knows better. _Surely_ there must be for the pain to be so severe. The logic behind emotional pain's ability to invoke such a seemingly physical agony is still just beyond Sherlock's comprehension; but he no longer has to imagine what it must be like to lose a parent. The reality is right here in his arms. "Shh..." Sherlock rubs circles over the blogger's back under his jumper, rests a prominent cheekbone against his grey-blonde head. He envelopes John completely as he mourns his father, and wishes he knew how to take his partner's suffering away.

They sit there for hours more. Sherlock holds John until every last tear has dried and steady, albeit a little hoarse, breaths are filtering out over the pulse in his neck, and he's experiencing a strange tightness in his chest, a deep ache that he puts down to cramp. Sitting the same way for such a long time can't be good on one's muscles, which is obviously why he feels as though someone has taken a sledgehammer to the cavity where his heart lies, and also explains the odd burning sensation behind his eyes. It occurs to him later that anyone could have walked in on the display – Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade. None of their associates take great care when it comes to respecting the privacy of 221B's occupants, and with all the forehead kisses and the hair stroking their secret would have been out in an instant. Although the majority of societal 'norms' confuse him, he knows that this kind of behaviour would be considered wholly inappropriate in the average friendship or even purely sexual relationship.

But as they fall into a long, exhausted silence, and Sherlock repeatedly brushes kisses over his doctor's hairline, he comes to the sudden realisation that he's tired of secrets. He's tired of this invisible wall that he constructed for his public relationship with John. As frightened as Sherlock is of losing him, of putting John in harm's way, he is also aware that the blogger knew what he was getting into when he attached himself to the consulting detective. _I said 'dangerous', and here you are_. John knew. John _knows_ the risks of openly being with Sherlock Holmes. He's a grown man and he can make his own decisions; besides, everyone else seems to automatically assume that they are... _intimate,_ anyway. The only person standing in the way of their public relationship is Sherlock himself.

And he is fast losing track of all the other reasons to keep this secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I know I keep torturing our boys. Hopefully tomorrow's update will more than make up for it.


	24. Public

 

**Public**

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They've always tried their best to keep their relationship a secret. At Sherlock's insistence they never touch or kiss in public, never get _too_ close, never use terms of endearment. Sherlock keeps up his emotionless, calculating charade as if the blogger hasn't drawn out in him that cursed _humanity_ , shown him for the first time what it's like to care and be cared for in return. John doesn't date anymore (seeing women like Jeanette as a cover-up was starting to weigh too heavily on his conscience) but continues to argue that he's not gay – and he isn't, really, he's not even bisexual, just Sher-locked – and retains his tabloid nickname of Confirmed Bachelor. No one knows. No one. They always ask for two rooms when they work out of London (though they only ever use one) and deny every rumour that points to their involvement.

Sherlock made it clear from the beginning that he wanted to keep everything strictly private between them. He was the one who suggested the secrecy to John in the first place, that morning when they'd woken up next to each other and he made it clear to his blogger that he wanted more than this comfortable friendship they'd fallen into. And although it can be inconvenient at times (and at others downright infuriating) John has respected that wish. Especially after their fight in Dartmoor, when the detective confessed his fear of endangering him. He knows that Sherlock cares about him, no matter what. He also knows that Sherlock has spent his whole life as a target of ridicule and gossip because of his genius, and understands that the man may also just want to save himself from further taunts. So the doctor keeps his mouth shut. He politely declines when he's asked out for coffee or drinks – not exactly a regular occurrence, he has to reluctantly admit – and tries to fob the disappointed women off with various different excuses seeing as 'I'm already taken' isn't an option available to him. John sees Harry on occasion and brushes off her over-concerned sisterly nagging that he's been single for far too long, and isn't it about time that he met a nice girl and settled down? After all, he doesn't want to be thinking about marriage and children _too_ late, does he?

 _Marriage and children, Christ._ Now _there's_ an idea. Intriguing...and rather strange. It's a thought that he finds his mind wandering to more and more often lately, in the dark hours when he can't sleep or when he's supposed to be typing up his latest blog entry. It's an idea that keeps on sneaking up and catching him unawares; he's lost track of the times he's caught himself watching Sherlock tune his violin in his armchair, or staring at the detective as he pores over slides and Petri dishes at the kitchen table, trying to imagine a shiny gold band on the man's finger or those unruly ebon curls on the head of a much smaller being running about the flat. Where would they get married? Who would they invite – would they bother with a honeymoon? Would they have a son or a daughter, via adoption or surrogate? Whose sperm would they use? Every time, John has to shake his head and remind himself that none of that may ever happen. And if it does, it certainly can't be while Sherlock is still refusing to do so much as brush fingertips in public. So he doesn't say a word.

But then there are days like this one where, with cameras flashing and dictaphones being thrust in their faces, he wants to scowl at all the journalists asking Sherlock if he really _is_ romantically linked to their most recent female client. The doctor has never been the only one to find Sherlock highly attractive, despite the man's delusions that he isn't 'aesthetically pleasing', so it's hardly surprising that every now and again Sherlock is linked to one woman or another. It creates a buzz, stirs gossip. It sells newspapers. Standing at his side, always, John wants to blurt out everything. He wants to tell the crowd all about every secret cupboard kiss at the Yard, every stupid fight and enthusiastic making-up. He wants to tease them with the knowledge that he could describe exactly how that incredible cupid's bow tastes, what the consulting detective looks like in the throes of ecstasy, how it sounds when that steady baritone voice whimpers and begs. John could describe it all – but he never will, because those secrets are for him only, ones he'll take with him to his grave. At the back of the room Donovan and Anderson snigger at their obvious discomfort, mature as ever. Lestrade offers them a sympathetic smile and tries to calm the excited journalists down so that he can wrap the press conference up. Still they rant about Ms Fisher (whose boyfriend will not be pleased), and as John watches Sherlock's eyes narrow in irritation he wishes he could tell the truth just to shut them up.

They've always tried their best to keep their relationship a secret.

Which is why John's heart stops in his chest when long fingers suddenly seize him by the collar, and Sherlock kisses him in front of every major newspaper in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 25: Adoring.


	25. Adoring

 

**Adoring**

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Rain patters lightly against the window, accompanied now and again by the faint roll of thunder in the distance. Outside, thick grey cloud blankets London and obscures the sun from view, making for another wet, watery Monday morning in Baker Street. Their phones have been ringing almost constantly for the past three days, since the impromptu press conference kiss; half an hour ago they just turned the things off, having already locked the front door in a clear sign that they don't wish to be disturbed. Ever. Wrapped up in a nest of duvets and pillows and pyjamas are a consulting detective and his doctor, who've hardly moved from their bed since falling into the flat on Thursday night in a tangle of lips and laughter. Listening to the brewing storm and counting the seconds between rumbles, John lazily runs a hand through the curls settled on his chest. Sherlock's eyes are closed, dozing, savouring the feel of the blogger's fingers in his hair and the steady beating of the heart beneath his ear.

The hours that followed The Kiss were something of a haze to him, a blur of camera flashes and gasps and more kisses, and then of course the incredible relationship-affirming sex (though they waited until they were home for that). Mycroft had called every five minutes for an hour until John finally picked up the phone and told him, quite firmly, to _please piss off so I can finish shagging your brother senseless on our kitchen table thank you goodbye –_ Sherlock was so proud he'd done that thing with his tongue that John likes so much, until the doctor's eyes rolled and he became a completely incoherent gibbering mess. Lestrade had texted them both fifty-seven times by Friday morning before the detective eventually replied that he should stop, unless he wanted some rather explicit photographs emailed to him, and Sherlock would _not_ be merciful. Thankfully the DI got the message. It hasn't stopped other people from harassing them, however. Reporters, Harry, Angelo, Mike and a number of John's ex-girlfriends are the reason why their phones are now off, thrown clear across the room. At least Mrs Hudson, bless her soul, has had the common sense not to bother them at all.

Once they'd christened practically every surface in the flat they showered and retreated into bed, curled themselves up in the sheets like this and slept more peacefully than John can ever remember. Since then they've only moved for food, showers (together) and the bathroom. Gazing up at the ceiling, John smiles to himself as he works a tangle out of an errant curl with his fingertips. Sherlock changed his mind. He changed his mind and kissed him in public, in front of _everyone_ : the journalists practically burst into simultaneous tears as their sales figures trebled before their eyes. When the kiss broke Lestrade's mouth was hanging open, staring in utter shock, and John won't be forgetting the hilarious combination of horror and disbelief on Donovan and Anderson's faces any time soon. It was fantastic. But even more exhilarating than the priceless reactions of their colleagues, or the clamouring of the press as the two of them strode from the room, is the knowledge that they can finally be open with their relationship. No more pretending, no more faking, no more acting. The world will finally know that Sherlock is his and he is Sherlock's, and nothing can change that. John doesn't think he has ever been this happy.

Treading the fine line between consciousness and dreaming, the detective leans into the hand now rubbing slow circles across the back of his head. He hums appreciatively as John's thumb swirls over a particularly sensitive spot behind his ear, eyelashes fluttering. Sherlock watches raindrops race each other down the windowpane for a few seconds before closing his eyes again; it's nicer here in the dark, where he only has to feel, where he can replay The Kiss and John's reaction over and over as many times as he likes. He hadn't really expected the doctor to respond, except maybe save for a startled gasp and a look of wild-eyed surprise. But no – after barely a moment of total, shocked stillness, John unfroze, and grabbed at the material of his Belstaff and kissed him back with such ferocity that he was nearly bowled over. That was when the rabble of reporters _really_ started screeching. The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts just thinking about it, about the collective intake of breath and the hooting, the interrogations, the chaos. The wonderful warmth of John's mouth, the invigorating sense of possession that came from kissing him so publicly. Something light and fuzzy and good wells inside Sherlock's chest and his arm tightens just a fraction around John's waist, because this is where he's supposed to be. With his blogger. And proud of it, pleased to say it out loud, happy to prove in front of a room full of strangers and... _friends_...that he wants John. He wants him, needs him desperately, is lost and empty without him. And there's no shame in that. Lying here in silence, doing something as simple as just breathing and having careful fingers sift through his curls, Sherlock knows he has never been and never will be happier than he is right now in this bed, with John. He wishes that he could save this scene, not just to his internal hard drive but physically, tangibly. He wishes he could gather the corners of this moment up and seal it inside a jar to keep forever. "I think I love you."

John goes completely and utterly still underneath him. He stops combing Sherlock's hair, his breath catching and his heart skipping a beat as those words wash over him. Sprawled across his chest in their refuge of blankets and bedsheets, the detective continues to drift on the edge of dreams as if he didn't say anything at all. But John's pulse starts to thunder, his mouth drying out. He convinced himself a long time ago that he would never hear that phrase from his partner's mouth, and he'd made his peace with that; Sherlock Holmes isn't your regular man, after all. He feels things, sure he does (and it's become especially more obvious of late), but whether or not the man would ever be able to take the 'sentiment' he harbours for John and label it 'love' was a question his doctor had swiftly answered in his own mind. Now, though...was he wrong? Has something in Sherlock softened, humanised enough to allow for such emotional commitment? Swallowing, the blogger finds his voice and resumes his ministrations. "Oh yeah?" he murmurs softly, wanting so badly to say it, finally admit it out loud, but needing to know that this is genuine. That the detective is serious and not just muttering randomly in his half-conscious state. Sherlock sighs out a slow, contented breath across John's shirt, eyes still firmly closed, and presses closer into his touch.

"Mm," he replies. The single note is so deep that John can feel the vibration of it in his chest.

His fingertips drift downwards, tracing over the delicate shell of Sherlock's ear as he thinks, lips hitching up in a small smile. His other hand covers the thin wrist over his hip, and he absent-mindedly strokes his thumb across the milky skin there. "How much?" John decides to push just a little bit further, while Sherlock is still drowsy enough to be so open. He's not exactly one to be vulnerable, emotionally or otherwise, and later he may try to deny everything to protect himself. Who knows if John will ever get to hear those three words again? Waiting patiently, he peers down at the man in his arms. Sherlock is quiet for so long that John begins to think he might have fallen asleep. But then he shifts, tilting his head up a little, fingers flexing lightly around the material of his partner's t shirt.

"With all," he breathes as he feels the welcoming darkness of sleep pulls him over the edge, "of...the heart you gave me." Sherlock Holmes slips into blissful, sound unconsciousness, his entire frame free of tension, expression relaxed and smooth. John's throat all of a sudden feels very tight, something in his chest tugging forcefully. The detective's answer reverberates in the air long after the rumble of his voice has faded away. At last John moves, leaning down. His eyes close as he presses his lips to the top of Sherlock's head, whispering into his curls words that are almost drowned out by the roll of thunder.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

Outside, the world continues to turn. But the sun shines only inside 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been longing to write this chapter from the beginning, but I made myself wait because it's one of my favourites. Finally, they said it.  
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 26: Surprising.


	26. Surprising

**Surprise**

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" _Please_ John. I _need_ some," Sherlock pleads from the sofa, wrapped in his dressing gown and looking positively miserable. "Just _one_ , John, that's all I need, just one – " Resisting the urge to sigh, the doctor replies calmly,

"I wasn't born yesterday, Sherlock." His grip tightens just a fraction on the packet of cigarettes he guards in his lap, but he doesn't take his eyes off the television. "And you can stop with the kicked puppy look. You're not having any." The detective huffs sulkily, folds his arms across his chest and sinks back into the cushions, pouting. A smile twitches at the edge of John's mouth: he _will_ get Sherlock to give up smoking.

Sunday night. Chinese takeout, crap late-night telly, pyjamas and tea. Usually cuddles too, but John supposes he's just lost himself that privilege for the next week. Still, it'll be worth it for his partner to have healthy lungs. That is, until a lanky figure approaches his armchair and lands a brain-melting, knee-shaker of a kiss on him without warning. Fingertips dig into the sensitive spot at the nape of his neck and a clever tongue expertly opens his mouth and delves inside, temporarily disabling his ability to think or even remember his name, and he can't help but grab back, seek purchase in blue silk and ebony curls. And then it's over and Sherlock swans off to their bedroom, dressing gown billowing out behind him. John's cheeks are flushed, heart thundering wildly, and he realises with some surprise that he's halfway to a rather unexpected hard-on. _Wow_. He catches his breath, licking at his swollen lips and lifting a hand to run it through his hair...and notices the cigarette packet missing from his fingers. Snorting, he shakes his head in disbelief. _Sneaky sod._

A few minutes later, he decides to use Sherlock Holmes' own trick against him – and finds himself being chased out of the bedroom, cigarettes in hand, by a pillow and a loud curse. John laughs as he escapes to the relative safety of the living room, wondering if the detective will stalk out into the kitchen to fight (hopefully with more kisses involved) for his nicotine. A baritone grumble and what sounds like a rather creative insult reach his ears, and with a beam and a giggle John calls back cheerfully, " _Love you!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, you guys keep making me cry with all your lovely reviews. Seriously. I'm speechless. Thank you so, so much.  
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 27: Admiring.


	27. Admiring

 

 

**Admiring**

xxxx

x

Throwing a cheerful greeting to Mrs Hudson in the hallway, John takes the stairs up to the flat two at a time. This is the first day in nearly a fortnight that he's managed to snag the afternoon shift off from work. One of the nurses has just unexpectedly had to go on maternity leave, and until the surgery can hire a temporary replacement John and the rest of the staff are having to split her patients between themselves. He had to agree to do the late shift tomorrow night so that Sarah can get away in time for a date, but she's covering him for the rest of today in return – which means he finally gets to spend some quality time with his consulting detective. Though he supposes not many people class 'quality time' as sitting around drinking tea and watching Sherlock Holmes do complicated experiments involving microwaving severed ears. Just the thought is enough to make him smile.

The door to 221B is wide open like usual. John makes a mental note to talk to Sherlock about that; their friends quite often walk in on said 'quality time', normally Lestrade with a new case, Mrs Hudson with leftovers or even Molly with fresh specimens from the morgue. But one of these days someone's going to ignore the seemingly random closed door and walk in on their _private_ time, especially now that they've discovered a whole new kind of love for their furniture, and although Sherlock probably couldn't give a toss John would very much rather that didn't happen. Molly already blushes and stammers around them enough now that they're 'out' as a couple, Mrs Hudson really doesn't need the shock at her time of life and if Lestrade smirks smugly at him any more often he's going to have a coronary. Irritating Detective Inspectors aside for now, though, John is about to call out from the top of the stairs that he's home when a strong violin note rings out from inside 221B. The sound is so sad, so different to anything he's ever heard come from that violin before that he stops in his tracks just outside the doorway, taken by surprise. The note fades slowly into another of a lower pitch, equally as melancholic, then another, and John can't help himself. He stays where he is, completely still, and he listens. _What could have upset Sherlock so much?_ he wonders, chest tightening involuntarily the way it always does when his partner is hurting, but he draws a blank.

John soon discovers, however, that the detective isn't playing the instrument as a comfort.

The sorrowful notes continue for a little while longer, running right through the doctor in a way he's never known music to do before: a familiar, aching emptiness begins to settle inside him, seeping in and settling over him like a fog. An old darkness, a chilling misery that he never thought he'd feel again. Never wanted to. Unexplainable, suffocating sadness is clawing its way steadily up his throat. And then suddenly the music changes. The notes grow higher and sweeter, lighter, in a smoothly fast transition. The pace picks up and John begins to feel that horrible chill fading away, evaporating, and in its place tendrils of something _good_ and _right_ start to bloom in the centre of his being. The music dips and rises and falls again, not too quickly, not too slow. As he listens, John begins to be reminded of different things, better things. Running through the darkened streets of London. Adrenaline rushes. Hysterical laughter, lightning-speed deductions. Limbs in the freezer and tea, exasperated sighs, smiling, pyjamas. Reconciliatory kisses. Hot kisses, swift kisses, soft kisses, hard kisses. Jam. Nicotine patches. Hand-holding on the sofa. Failed attempts at playing _Cluedo._ Watching the world's only consulting detective outsmart every single contestant on _Countdown._ John realises then that this song is a new composition. This stunning piece of music came out of his genius partner's brain. And he knows, instinctively, exactly what the inspiration was.

Edging forward, the interior of the flat steadily comes into view. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, lighting up the room and illuminating dust particles floating in the air. Over by the window a tall, lean figure casts shadows across the carpet as he glides the bow of his violin masterfully across the strings to produce the most innocent, tender sounds John has ever heard. Raw. Beautifully vulnerable. Watching the man move, he finds himself questioning how Sherlock can be so astoundingly graceful at every single thing he does.

And then, with one final sweeping note, it's over. The song finishes on a long note just high enough to make the hair stand up pleasantly on the back of John's neck, bringing him out of the trancelike state he hadn't realised he'd fallen into. He shivers involuntarily; his skin is covered in goosebumps. Clearly oblivious to his presence – _Christ, that's a first_ – Sherlock takes a pencil from his desk and makes one quick alteration to the sheet music propped up in the stand in front of him. No doubt he could have the whole composition and a hundred others memorised inside his mind for all eternity if he wanted to, but for some reason John has yet to have revealed to him Sherlock prefers to keep hard copies of all his musical work. Backups, he supposes, in the distant corner of his mind not awestruck. Sweet rises and sombre dips seem to echo in his ears. As Sherlock moves back to survey his accomplishment, face hidden, John steps forward into the flat. A loose floorboard creaks. The detective stills in the middle of absent-mindedly plucking his violin strings.

For a moment they both simply stand there, frozen, unsure how to proceed. But after what feels like an eternity (barely five seconds) the spell breaks. John takes another step just as Sherlock turns around, dressing gown swishing about his ankles. A light pink flush stains his porcelain skin, creeping up from under the collar of his t shirt and softening his sharp cheekbones. His eyes are glued firmly to the floor in what is painfully obvious... _embarrassment._ John would laugh if his attention wasn't otherwise preoccupied. "You're home early," a low, wavering rumble addresses the floor. The doctor nods slowly.

"Sarah's covering the rest of my shifts today," he replies.

"Oh. I see." More silence. It becomes clear to John that he might not have been meant to hear that composition. At least, not yet.

And then he shakes himself, forces his legs to move, and crosses the room to satisfy his burning curiosity. He drops his keys onto the desk as he passes by before stopping next to the blushing detective, looking down at the sheet music. At the very top, scrawled in Sherlock's fanciest, special-occasion handwriting is the title: ' _John's Song.'_ All the breath leaves him in a sharp _whoosh_. He was right. Swallowing, John's tongue rolls out over his bottom lip as he touches his fingertips tentatively to the paper. "You wrote this?" he murmurs, looking up to Sherlock for an explanation and unable to keep a note of wonder from coming into his voice. The detective manages to drag his eyes up from the carpet at John's tone, hating that he's so embarrassed, hating that he can't help it. The tips of his ears are burning red.

"Yes," is his quiet answer, meeting warm blue orbs swimming with questions. "I've been writing it for you, but I...I didn't intend for you to hear it until it was perfect..." His courage falters, disappears under the intensity of that gaze and the emotions he doesn't understand there, and all of a sudden the cold cup of tea on the coffee table is _riveting_. "I only just finished."

Clearing his throat, he shakes his head dismissively and fiddles with his instrument. "It's nothing," he says. "Just this silly little thing...a distraction." John stares up at him incredulously, hardly able to believe what he's seeing, what he's hearing. Sherlock is the closest to mortified that he has ever seen him, slowing turning pinker by the second. And as for his very poor attempt at digging himself out of it, well...first of all, Sherlock Holmes _never_ creates a transparent cover story. Secondly, he also never allows a so-called 'distraction' to become important; but anyone with ears can tell that this composition has had heart and body and soul put into it for God only knows how long. This is not a distraction. This is a masterpiece. As the detective looks awkwardly around the room, John feels that lightness, that happiness from before starting to warm him up again, beginning inside his chest and spreading out like a wave to the tips of his fingers and toes.

 _He wrote it about me. He wrote it_ for _me. He wrote it._ But where is the smug smile? Where is the knowingly quirked eyebrow, the look that plainly says, 'I know I'm brilliant, you don't have to remind me'? Lifting a hand, he tilts Sherlock's chin round, forcing him to meet his gaze. John stares at him, and for the first time in his life he sees something utterly alien in those bottomless grey eyes he loves so much: self-doubt. _It's nothing. Just this silly little thing._ There's the odd sensation of being jerked upward from somewhere near his navel and he is suddenly sitting in this room at the desk watching a dark-haired dominatrix try to seduce _his_ genius, whilst said genius reels off an astoundingly fast deduction with far too much confidence. It truly was incredible, just like everything Sherlock Holmes does. He's the most brilliant man John has ever known – how can he possibly doubt himself over something like _this_?

Without another word John's hand slides round to cup the back of Sherlock's head, other fingers grabbing the man's collar tightly, and he goes up on his tiptoes and fiercely crashes their lips together. The detective is so surprised he almost drops his violin. John nips at Sherlock's bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth and opening that damnable mouth and delving inside, tasting, dizzying, taking. Sherlock groans into John's mouth, his one free hand clutching at the small of the doctor's back in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. Even as John sinks back down onto his feet Sherlock follows after his lips in a daze, until a gentle hand on his chest keeps him a millimetre out of reach. Their eyes still closed, the blogger's heart is aching with pride and love as he breathes, " _Every possible variant._ " It only takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, and a bright smile to light up Sherlock's face. John grins right back as they open their eyes and look at one another. "Play it again?" Breathless, Sherlock nods. But first John plucks the violin and bow from his fingers, setting them down carefully on the desk – the closest surface he can reach without stepping away – and pulls him down for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. I'm so sorry I didn't get this update up yesterday - I had to pack to house-sit for a friend for a week, and then the arguing in the fandom upset me so much I had to walk away for the rest of the night. It won't happen again, I promise - at least, not without prior notification.  
> Tomorrow's update - Chapter 28: Goodnight.


	28. Goodnight

 

**Goodnight**

xxxx

x

John knows that something's wrong when Sherlock follows him up to bed, once night nearly a month later. The detective doesn't sleep, unless it's after love or John has insisted, or they've just closed a case and he's sufficiently exhausted. Even rarer is for him to do it when he's spent all day fixed to the sofa, silent, locked away in his mind palace with fingers steepled under his chin. Now that he thinks about it, Sherlock's been acting a bit off ever since Moriarty pulled that stunt at Tower Hill last week. And Pentonville. And the Bank of England. John is starting to get a little worried, of course he is. But he also knows that, if it's really serious, Sherlock will open up when he's ready. If he's not back to his usual self within the next few days John will try coaxing an answer out of him, to settle his concerns. Until then, it's probably nothing to worry about. Just Sherlock driving himself mad trying to figure out how Moriarty did all those things. So he doesn't question it as a long-limbed figure climbs under the covers with him, pausing only to rid himself of his suit and throw on a t shirt with his boxers.

Sherlock wraps his arms around the doctor, silently pulling him into his chest. He rubs soothing circles over the top of the man's left shoulder blade – John's wound is hurting again tonight, though he'll never admit it and tries to cover up every occasional wince and grunt of pain. His other arm slipping under his blogger's head, Sherlock bends at the elbow to reach up and bury long fingers in soft, slowly-greying hair. The reappearance of the self-proclaimed consulting criminal has shaken him more badly than he wants to acknowledge. The last time Moriarty waltzed into their lives... John strapped with explosives, the red dot hovering over his forehead, that _look_ in his eyes as he'd thrown himself at the psychopath to give his partner a chance to run...The detective's hold tightens. That night was the same night that he and John finally gave in to their growing feelings, and God, how things have changed since then. How they've changed. How _he's_ changed. Sherlock spent all day in his mind palace desperately trying to figure out what it is that Moriarty wants from him, whether or not he will be able to deal with the situation soon, without involving John. Because this is what he always feared. The reason why he spent so long reluctant to bring their romantic relationship out into the open. Moriarty is back and if he knew before, if he _knew_ that striking at the doctor would have such a profound impact on the world's only consulting detective, then God only knows what kind of heinous plans he could be setting into motion. What schemes he's planning. What horrors. _I'll burn you._ John – brave, loyal, wonderful John – will be his target. _I'll burn the heart out of you_. Sherlock can feel John's heartbeat against his chest. He counts and memorises every single reassuring thump. He hasn't said 'I love you' since that morning, lying in bed together, drifting blissfully into sleep. Oh, he wants to; John says it often, confident now that it's a sentiment the detective won't shrink away from. But as for saying it himself...The words always seem to stick in his throat. They're there, and he feels them, _Christ_ he feels them, but when it comes to speaking them aloud he chokes. A shadow of fear and insecurity clings to him, still. _No matter_ , is his constant self-assurance. _One day I'll be able to say it again. One day._

Shifting impossibly closer, John sighs out deeply, contently, into the crook of his neck, "Goodnight, Sherlock, love." The voice is soft and hushed in Sherlock's ear. Squeezing his eyes shut, his chest clenches, and he knows he'll die before he lets any harm come to the man in his arms. A strong cupid's bow presses gently to grey-blonde hair.

"Sweet dreams, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end now, gosh it's gone so fast! I haven't read this through for mistakes yet, but as it's late I'll come back and do that tomorrow when I put Chapter 29 ("Promising") up. After that, it's only one more chapter left. 
> 
> BUT. NOT THE LAST UPDATE.  
> I will be putting up a 31st 'chapter' which will be an important notice - announcement, if you like. But if you don't come back for it, I'm afraid you'll probably be missing out!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed today's update, even if it's not as long as yesterday's...I really wanted to go for short and sweet on this one! :)


	29. Promising

 

 

**Promising**

xxxx

x

For the first time since he was a student here, John roams the corridors of St Bart's alone. It's nearly five o'clock in the morning, so he knows that there'll be no one down in this part of the hospital to see him as he opens and closes various doors, peering inside and finding room after room to be empty; Sherlock dragged him here a few hours ago, claiming it would be a safe place for them to hide from the police for the night. _Somewhere out there_ , John thinks to himself, _Greg is doing the mother of all headshakes._ He assumes that's where Sherlock disappeared to, here to check that he could pick the locks to them in and that Molly wouldn't be around, though the sweet mortician would never grass them up. John had started to worry that he'd disappeared for other reasons. That he thought there was a chance that the doctor would actually buy that crap about _Richard Brook_ and ' _Sherlock's a fake_ '. _Utter bollocks,_ John thinks to himself, closing the door to an empty supply cupboard and moving on, _all of it_. A frown creases his forehead, a surge of barely-suppressed anger swelling in him at the memory. He'll do whatever it takes to stop this sick little game before it's too late, before the name of the man he loves is besmirched for all eternity. Sherlock is the realest thing John's ever known; he'll kill Moriarty with his bare hands if he gets the chance.

He pushes open another door at random, and is abruptly dragged out of his thoughts. Dimly lit compared to the corridor outside, this isn't just any lab in St Bart's. This is _the_ lab. And there, leaning over the table in the centre of the room, is a certain consulting detective. John lets out a deep sigh of relief – half an hour ago the man excused himself from their hiding place in Molly's new lab to use the bathroom. Needless to say, he hadn't come back and his doctor's mind (fuelled by far too many adrenaline rushes for one night) had gone into overdrive. Had Sherlock been caught by someone? Had he been taken? Had he _left_ , willingly, of his own accord, to carry out some grand scheme, the details of which John is not privy to? But no. No, he didn't do any of those things. He's right here.

The blogger scans the table to see what Sherlock is working on, but to his surprise the space in front of him is clear of papers and microscopes and Petri dishes. His palms press flat against the surface, staring down at it as if he can see his own reflection imprisoned there. John licks at his bottom lip. Stepping slowly into the room and closing the door behind him he stops short when he realises that they are both stood in the exact spots they were that day eighteen months ago. _Funny how things come around, isn't it?_ "You okay?" he asks gently, fingers furling and unfurling at his sides, unsure what to do with himself. Even though his voice is soft it seems to shatter the intense silence of the lab, but Sherlock doesn't look up. He doesn't even move. Instead, his deep tones roll out in a hushed rumble,

"Do you believe in me, John?" The doctor feels his heart skip an uncomfortable beat. So he was right, then, with what he'd been worrying about earlier? Is that why Sherlock's been acting so strange? Because he thinks that, after everything they've been through, everything they've done, his partner will doubt him based on the claims of a madman and a delusional journalist? Even if he _is_ an annoying dick all the time (okay, _some_ of the time, maybe that had been a bit harsh) there's no way John could ever lose faith in him now. Not knowing every inch of him, body and brain and brilliance. He could never doubt the man he's lived and loved and laughed with for the best year and a half of his life.

"Of course I do," he replies, the words comforting and truthful as they leave his lips. "I always have."

Finally, Sherlock lifts his head and looks to him, and the raw emotion John sees in those once machine-like grey eyes makes the bottom drop out of his stomach. Even as the detective straightens up, moving towards him quickly, he can't tear his gaze away from that face. Those eyes. He's never seen them glassy like this, never so frightened. Then Sherlock's fingers are clutching at John's jumper over his shoulders, and the breath hitches in his throat. "Promise me, John," the younger man breathes, peering down intently into those warm blue orbs he treasures so much. "Promise me that you'll always believe." The doctor swallows, licking his lip again, bewildered and starting to be just a bit scared. "No matter where I go," Sherlock continues, giving John a little shake and looking almost wild. "No matter what I do."

"Sherlock – "

"No matter what happens, John," the detective interrupts, and now he's pleading, imploring, desperation flooding his words and making him visibly tremble, "Promise me you'll believe in me, always, _promise me_ – " John is frozen now, unable to speak, unable to move even though his heart is thundering and his own hands beginning to shake as adrenaline bursts through his veins. Sherlock is afraid, more than afraid, he's terrified, though of what exactly John has no idea and, " _Please_ ," Sherlock begs, and his voice breaks on the word and John can't take it anymore – he seizes his love by the back of his head and takes a handful of curls and pulls him down and kisses him with every single fibre of feeling in his body. The detective's response is immediate, parting his mouth obligingly and John delves inside and sweeps his tongue along Sherlock's, raises his other hand to cup the man's cheek, holding him in place, and Sherlock releases John's jumper and instead clutches tightly at the small of his back, pulling him close, closer, not close enough, and they kiss and they carry on kissing and slowly it becomes less desperate, slowly it softens into something so much more. John is dizzy. He can't breathe. He can't think about anything except the taste and feel of the man wrapped around him, and a dusty, distant memory that stirs in the back of his mind. Because he's done this before. They've done this before, here, a million times in his dreams, back when they were still just two flatmates who didn't know how to deal with what they felt for one another.

And at last he understands, he understands the dread settling icy-cold in the pit of his stomach (Moriarty, the spider, the psychopath) and he understands why their mouths move with such comforting familiarity ( _we're not individual anymore we are one and the same one entity_ ) and he understands the electricity flowing between them making his brain melt and his knees go weak and a sudden flicker of courage bloom inside his chest.

_Love. Could it ever have been anything else?_

This is where it all began. The first time he laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, without knowing how the man would change his life, how much a part of him he would become. Their gazes met, their fingers brushed as John handed over his phone.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

They'd had no idea that they were looking at everything they'd ever needed.

John tightens his hold on his partner and fights the dread, fights the fear, because he has Sherlock and he doesn't need anything else, here in this lab together. This is where it all began. But even as he clings on to the fire roaring through his veins, the bravery that Sherlock brings out in him, John finds himself thinking again of that look in the detective's eyes and chanting over and over in his mind _I love you I love you I love you_ and wondering if, one day when they are old and grey and their bodies start to fail, this will be where it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more updates, now. The final kiss will be uploaded tomorrow night, and then the night after that I'll be posting a 'chapter' with an announcement. Make sure to check in for both! Thank you, as always, for the lovely comments, bookmarks and kudos.


	30. Last

 

**Last**

xxxx

x

He never really thought about it before, but as he steps up to the ledge and peers down at the passers-by and the street below, it's all of a sudden a very, very long way to fall. Even though he's never had a problem with heights before he can feel a faint dizziness starting to tingle at the back of his brain, and pushes it away; he can't afford distractions now. He waits for the taxi. He waits for John. When his blogger finally appears, he dials one of the few numbers he has been careful not to delete, and it begins.

_Sherlock, run!_

Would he run, if he had the chance? If he could flee from this rooftop right now, this instant, would he do it? _Yes_ , he decides without hesitation, _I would run if it meant I could go home to John_. He's not a coward, although many people like to think he is...but if there was a way that he could get down from here and get in a taxi and go home to 221B, to John, safe and sound and drinking tea in their living room...he'd do it. In a heartbeat. Only, that's not what's going to happen. Life is not a fairytale and he has no such opportunity, no alternative. The blood of a madman stains the concrete behind him. Not so long ago in a darkened swimming pool, John was willing to die for him. It's time to return the favour.

 _Sherlock, more_.

Mere minutes from now he will walk away from this fall, thanks to some help from Molly and his homeless network. But he'll still die. He'll become a ghost, nothing more than a memory to those he cares about, to his friends. He'll disappear and life will go on the same as ever for them, the world will continue to turn, and it'll be as if he never even existed. The fall will still kill him. His doctor will still be left alone. There have been tears before, long ago, when he was a child – but these are hot and stinging, and he can't remember if they're supposed to be this way. John pleads and begs him to come down but he won't, he can't, it's too late for that now, and oh how he wants his blogger. _His_ blogger, Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The only one in the world. Before John, he didn't really know _feeling_. He didn't understand joy, or sentiment, or genuine laughter that shook his thin frame and made his eyes water. He didn't understand love or pleasure or fondness but he knows, now, he knows that the ability to _feel_ was there inside him all along. Just waiting on a miserable, invalided army doctor to limp into his life and turn it upside down, show him the best parts of himself. John rescued him. John hobbled along with his unquestioning loyalty and sarcasm and astonishing courage, and made Sherlock Holmes, aspiring God, into a man. A good man.

 _Sherlock, please_...

He trembles as he stands on the ledge. It has nothing to do with the cold breeze, or the light rain that starts to fall. John's voice in his ear is the only thing giving him the courage to do this; a reminder of what will happen if he does not, a reminder of the humanity (the life) that he has come to treasure. He wishes he could touch John one more time, before he has to disappear. He wishes he could pull him close and stroke his greying head and tell him that it really is all a trick, just a magic trick. It's not real. But _they_ are real. What they have is real. Always.

 _Sherlock, love_.

His work is nothing without John. His whole world is nothing without his blogger, except dark and joyless and infinitely lonely. All that time John spent coming second to cold corpses and criminal games, all those moments when he could have shouted and verbally torn him apart for making him feel of less worth. But he didn't. Only once did he ever bring it up, in the middle of a heated argument in an inn in Dartmoor, and even then he hadn't said a single negative word about it. Raindrops dampen the detective's hair and he wants to shout down to his doctor, declare aloud to the streets of London that _John you are the most important person the single dearest thing to me and you will never come second not to Mycroft not to cigarettes or drugs and especially not to the work because the Game isn't worth playing without you at my side._ But most of all, more than anything, he wishes he had done more. Said more. He should have been more receptive to his doctor's affections, more open about his own, more romantic. Bought flowers, perhaps, or remembered Valentines' Day – isn't that what normal couples do? He should have organised dates, surprises, sweet reminders of his feelings. He should have told John, every day.

_Thank you. Thank you for saving me. For showing me what it is to be loved._

But it's too late for that, now. Too late for all the things he wants to say.

_When you stand in the sun, your grey hairs are practically invisible. Your jumpers really are hideous. Don't ever stop wearing them. I only wore the hat for you. I only ever wanted you._

Instead the words that leave his lips are those he _has_ to say.

_I am a fake. I am a fraud. I created Moriarty. I needed a pawn, someone to manipulate without their knowledge to make the story more realistic. And so I drew you in. You were the perfect piece – broken, damaged, alone. You were a shell that I could fill with my lies and my stories and you believed me. It was all an act. I never felt anything for you._

He feels sick with himself.

 _I love you with all of the heart you gave me_.

John's voice grows thick. Outstretched fingertips that may not ever meet again.

A kiss with the air between their aching hearts.

_Sherlock – !_

The last time John Watson is kissed by Sherlock Holmes, he cannot feel it on his lips.

x

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. Thirty kisses, telling the story of our Baker Street boys' relationship from beginning to temporary end. I hope I haven't made you hate me too much...I just want to say a huge thank you, once again, to all of you who've read, reviewed, favourited, followed etc over the past month - without all of you, this story probably wouldn't have happened! What was meant to be just a series of short drabbles quickly grew into something else entirely and took on a life of its own; I originally started out with the intention of giving brief glimpses into John and Sherlock's relationship and their life together, but somehow ended up falling in love with the story along the way. And it has been so much fun. I haven't had such a wonderful Johnlock fanfiction experience since I posted 'Take My Hand' and for that I am ever so grateful! Also, a huge shoutout to all of you who've followed since the very beginning (you know who you are)!
> 
> Now - this will be the LAST UPDATE (because I'm about to tell you tomorrow's announcement).
> 
> I sat down, worked out a plotline for thirty more Johnlock kisses, and this is my way of making up to you for the sad ending - because Sherlock is not dead, and he will be coming home.
> 
> Chapter One of 'A Kiss With The Earth' will be up on August 10th, so next Saturday :)   
> I'm thrilled that you've all enjoyed A Kiss With The Air as much as I have. Thank you very, very much.


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